


Divine Intervention

by Maintenant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sora wa Akai Kawa no Hotori | Red River
Genre: Badass!Hariel, Don't Actually Need To Have Read Red River, F/M, Hariel doesn't know that she is the Master of Death, Hariel gets worshipped as Ishtar, Hariel is a magical being, MoD!Harry, Multi, Possible harem pairing, Yuuri doesn't exist in this fic, Zannanza will not die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maintenant/pseuds/Maintenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All in all, Hariel wasn't mad at whoever had brought her here. Sure, there was no indoor plumbing. And yeah, okay, all the food was pretty bland. And the villagers in this primitive little corner of the Earth were terrified of her for some reason. But honestly, Hariel was loving it. It was about time she got a vacation. Fem!HarryPotter. Goddess!Hariel. Hariel/Harem(?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Red River/Anatolia Story.
> 
> A/N: Love this story, and this is my take on it. Yuuri doesn't really exist in this fic - Hariel Poter (fem!Harry replaces her). This will be a Hariel/Kail pairing, with possibility of another guy being added to form a m/f/m. Slow burn.
> 
> I got a little tired of the main character always appearing the same way, so decided to change things up a bit. Don't worry! She'll meet Kail soon!

Hariel awoke to the vastly uncomfortable sensation of something grainy stuck behind her eyelids.

_Urgh. What is in my eye?_

It wasn't enough to be full-fledged pain, but it was almost worse than actual pain in the sense that it was just present enough to be a bother. Like trying to sleep through the barking of a dog. Not quite loud enough for you to give up on sleeping completely, but just enough to keep you awake. All. Night. Long. An incessant annoyance. And Hariel wanted it  _out._

Avada Kedavra green eyes opened to meet a sea of sandy dunes, golden hills stretching out in front of her as far as the eye could see.

 _Ah._  Faced with such overwhelming evidence, Hariel couldn't help but conclude;  _The grainy thing in my eye is sand._

Hariel wasn't sure what one was supposed to do when confronted with sand in the eyes, as she had never really been to the beach for fun (or while not on the run form Death Eaters or organizing funerals), so she didn't know any spells to solve that, but she thought she heard somewhere that water was part of the solution.

_Water, water, water… There's only sand around, where can I find water?_

But then she realized that, despite her face being almost painfully dry, and her eye apparently having sand in it, the bottom half of her body was incredibly wet.

And indeed, when Hariel looked down she found that she was lying down on what appeared to be the edge of a small lake. Her arms and her torso were on the sand, while everything below her waist was floating in the water.

Still dazed from having only recently woken up, and with slow, sleepy movements, Hariel sat up, still half submerged. She looked at the water she was sitting in some more and, deciding that it was sufficiently clean, cupped some to clean her face with.

 _Oh, thank Merlin_ , she thought, giving a small sigh of relief as the grainy feeling in her eye finally left.

And then everything finally caught up with her.

_Where the bloody hell am I?_

In sharp contrast to her previous sleepy and disoriented languid movements, Hariel moved with alertness, looking around her to find anything that could hint at where she was and who had brought her here.

The last thing she remembered was finally killing Voldemort, not with the killing curse, as many of her soldiers had expected, or with some magical mystical form of protection through love, as Dumbledore had expected, but with Gryffindor's sword. She wasn't quite sure what made her want to do it so personally, as opposed to the distant, cleaner sort of death one can give through a wand, but she remembered thinking that she wanted the madman dead by Muggle means, knowing that would infuriate him more than anything else.

(And perhaps- perhaps the bloodthirsty part of her brain Hariel was so good at pretending didn't exist wanted to feel his blood, slick and dark and taken from her in an abandoned cemetery when she was but fourteen, on her hands, wanted to hear the sickening sound his throat made as she thrust her blade, wanted to see Voldemort's reptilian head  _roll_ and hang it right beside the houself heads in Grimmauld Place.)

She had done the first three, but not the last. Unfortunately. No, she hadn't changed her mind about hanging his head with the houselves'; there was simply no time.

After Voldemort's grotesque corpse had crumpled, headless, bleeding, to the ground with an immensely satisfying  _thud_ , she and her troops had made quick work of the other Death Eaters. Once all their enemies had been dead or incapacitated, Hariel had celebrated with her army; the students and Aurors and supporters from all over Britain that had decided that enough was  _enough,_ the Ministry was useless, and the only people who were actually making any real progress in the war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters was Hariel's group.

(The first time one of the Ministry Aurors had asked to join her and – astonishingly enough –  _fight_ for her, Hariel had been shocked. It was only Hermione's quick thinking in inviting the Auror into their tent that stopped her from making a complete fool of herself. She would've continued gaping at him – she could hardly be at fault, he was kneeling before her like a  _bloody knight_  from one of the prissy fairytales Lavender was so obsessed with- and all the others that asked to join her after him, to be honest, if it hadn't been for that.)

And then Hariel had broken off from the crowd with Hermione and Ron to talk in privacy near the Black Lake. She remembered admiring the large expanse of water, not-so-fondly reminiscing on her time there for the Triwizard Cup's Second Task, and then, suddenly, shouts from her best friends and just  _darkness._

Now she was waking up in a lake in what looked like a desert.

How was this her life?!

Instincts honed by years of bullying and abuse followed by murder attempts at her school followed by full-out war finally catching up to her, Hariel looked around sharply, trying to find any hints on her location, or who had brought her here and for what purpose.

And that was when she saw the crowd of people staring wide-eyed at her on the other side of the lake.

They were all dressed strangely; all of them had sandals, the women were wearing old-fashioned dresses that seemed to be made out of rough straw with only rope serving as belts and keeping them from looking like unattractive rectangles. They were all pretty dirty and sweaty, too, and most of their hairstyles were really quite messy. They were all incredibly skinny, as well, carrying a sullen, half-starved air about them and deep, sunken eyes.

And were those  _spears_  in some of their hands?

Exactly  _where_ had Hariel landed?

.

.

.

At the same time, in Hattusa, capital of the Hittite Empire, two figures met in a hidden room in the imperial palace.

"Curses!" An irrefutably beautiful, yet cruel-looking blonde woman yelled, the words echoing in the abandoned dome so that they took on an eerie, ominous feel. "Curses! Curses! Curses! This has ruined everything!" Her blonde locks, done up in an elaborate hairdo, threatened to fall from their meticulously placed position, such was the force of her rage.

She would have looked like a fearsome thing, had there not been as much petulance in her voice as there was rage. The woman looked ready to stomp her feet in her anger, not unlike a child having a tantrum.

"My Queen, if I may ask, did the spell not work correctly?" A cloaked figure questioned, his deep voice and soothing tone providing a stark contrast to the Queen's agitated state. The tone spoke of both his predisposition for calm and reserve, as well as his practice in soothing this woman.

Despite this, however, the woman was not appeased. She shot him a venomous glare, and had he been anyone else he would have surely quivered in fear for the Queen was fickle and known amongst a select few for handing out cruel punishments even to her favorites.

"Of course the spell didn't work correctly!" She snarled, perfectly painted lips forming an ugly grimace. "If it had worked correctly I wouldn't be without a sacrifice and my son would be on his way to becoming king and I would  _not_  be yelling, would I?!" The woman spat at her companion, a scowl marring her beautiful features, before forcibly composing herself. "But it did not fail completely. I know I have brought her to the empire. It will be easier to summon her to me next time, without having to travel through space  _and_ time."

The chosen girl had been supposed to appear in her ritual room, or at the very least in one of the holy springs of the Hittite capital, but the Queen had sent her soldiers to every corner of the city, even invading a few select homes, and none of her spies had heard anything about a beautiful young woman with ruby red hair and intensely green eyes, wearing clothes not of this time suddenly appearing in a source of water.

Frowning, the Queen thought back to the sensation that had overcome her when summoning the sacrifice. There was a strange energy to the girl that she had never felt in anyone else. Like the chill one gets when walking through a battlefield, or perhaps the paranoia that makes one look over one's shoulder when they are walking alone at night. The Queen had sensed the energy intervene with her spell, protecting the girl and sending her to a place far away from her intended destination.

Far away from the place that was supposed to be her death.

This energy was worrying. It was an unknown. It was dangerous.

Quickly, the Queen dismissed her thoughts. When she had asked the gods for the most worthy sacrifice to perform her ritual they had quickly – almost eagerly – shown her this girl. The girl's sacrifice would ensure that her son would rule as king.

Regardless of unknown energies, regardless of strength, regardless of innocence.

The girl would die.

.

.

.

All in all, Hariel wasn't mad at whoever had brought her here.

Yeah, sure, it wasn't all sunshine and daisies, but it wasn't bad. Although perhaps that wasn't saying much coming from someone who had been persecuted most of her life.

At first, Hariel had thought her arrival into this strange land might be a ploy from one of the few remaining Death Eaters that managed to avoid death or capture at the Great Battle, but that didn't really make sense. This village and its villagers with their gaunt faces and primitive spears were hardly a threat to her life. And even if Death Eaters had planned some sort of ambush for her here – though that was highly unlikely as all of them were too arrogant to come up with a back-up plan should they  _not_ win the Great Battle at Hogwarts – this wasn't a particularly great setting. Hariel would be wary about harming the innocent villagers, sure, but she hardly thought that was a noteworthy advantage when they could have sent her to one of their manors, in a closed space with less chance of escaping, or some other sinister location.

She didn't completely cross out the possibility, but she was fairly sure it wasn't Death Eaters that had sent her here.

But whoever it was, she was pretty okay with them.

After waking up half submerged in a lake, Hariel had gotten up and made her way to the villagers with the most slow, non-threatening walk she could muster.

Which had apparently not been nearly non-threatening enough, as they had all backed away from her when she approached. One had even been trembling while muttering what seemed to be prayers under her breath. To the right of the group, she thought she saw one of the villagers  _prostrate_ before her; legs bent, head down, arms stretched out in front of her, but quickly dismissed the thought. The woman was probably just tying her shoelaces or something.

Hariel paid no mind to the fact that none of them had shoelaces. Or real shoes for that matter.

She was right in saying they were terrified, however.

What a group of thirty-some people holding  _spears_ could fear from a wet, unarmed (She was guessing they were muggles and didn't know what a wand could do, although she really wished she had brought her sword) young girl she didn't know.

Then again, they could be wizards who recognized her, but she hardly thought that likely. They didn't look like they had heard of  _shampoo_ or  _Barack Obama_ or even  _Merlin_ , much less the war leader of Wizarding Britain.

As she later found out from their indecipherable shouting, they also didn't speak English. Or French. Which was basically all she knew how to speak.

Trust Hariel to somehow find herself in a small, isolated tribe sequestered away from the rest of the world that was still stuck in the Bronze Age and didn't look like they had ever even  _heard_ of English.

(Hariel cursed herself for not learning the translation spell. This would be so much easier if they told her where she was.)

Realizing that the wide-eyed and oddly terrified tribesmen would be of no help to her, Hariel had stopped trying to communicate with them.

Behind the tribesmen, she could see a small village. There, the ground was no longer sand, but grass. The huts were made of wood and what appeared to be straw (an incendiary incident waiting to happen, if they asked her, but she supposed it was a bit early in their acquaintance to start criticizing their way of life. She didn't even know their names yet) and a few stones here and there. Tired-looking cows, chickens, bulls, and horses were fenced in and grazing on yellowed grass.

Having already tried – and failed – to apparate back home for some reason, Hariel was tempted to go into the village to see if there were any resources she could use, but seeing the villagers' forms near trembling with fear at the very sight of her, she thought that would have been rather cruel.

These people already looked like they didn't have much, she didn't need to give them heart attacks by intruding on the place where they held their obviously precious few belongings.

Instead, Hariel spotted a forest a bit behind the village and made her way there.

She was so used to being talked about behind her back that when the villagers started muttering to each other as soon as she walked off, it barely even registered.

Once in the forest, also a rather tired-looking thing, with more yellow than green and no fruit or animals that she could sense, she found a small clearing that she felt would do nicely. Looking around to make sure no one had followed her, Hariel took out her phoenix feather wand from its holster and started spelling the trees to make a roof over her head. She conjured some rocks to create walls for her new house, and made a mental note to procure real rocks at some later date. Conjured ones were never as durable, and she'd much rather her house be sturdy. With a quick wave of her wand, she turned the rocks a creamy white color, which provided a rather lovely contrast to the yellowish green and dark brown of the rest of the forest.

Inside the walls of her new home, she installed a bathroom with a shower and a tub (steaming in hot water was one of the few luxuries she held onto dearly, and not even the threat of death could make her part with it), a modest kitchen, and a king-sized bed for the bedroom.

Surprisingly tired at the relatively low level displays of magic (for her, at least), Hariel decided to rest a bit. She could deal with everything else later.

After taking a quick shower to rinse off the rest of the sand and dirty lake water, Hariel crashed on the bed and slept for two days straight.

Since then, weeks had passed since Hariel had arrived in this odd, antiquated village and she was actually kind of enjoying it.

Sure, they didn't have indoor plumbing. But she could solve that with magic!

And sure, they didn't have coffee. Or firewhiskey. Or treacle tart. Or anything that didn't taste horribly bland.

And yeah, okay, she couldn't really talk to anyone here because they didn't speak her language and she missed her friends desperately, but…

But she had such  _peace_ here. No one knew her. No one looked at her and saw the Girl-Who-Lived, or the Woman-Who-Conquered. No one hounded her for autographs, no one gave faulty interviews and wrote articles filled with wild speculation, no one decided to adore her or hate her based on the kind of day they were having, and  _no one_  thought they had a right to her. Here, she was just a young woman.

It was all she had ever wanted to be.

The peace and quiet of the forest and the neighboring village had also helped her deal with the aftermath of the war. Helped her deal with the fact that she had witnessed her friends being tortured, that she had sent her troops to fight against Death Eaters with the knowledge that some of them wouldn't make it back, that she had looked into people's – human beings' – eyes and shot an Avada Kedavra without thinking twice. She had expected the nightmares that had plagued her throughout not only the war but her whole Hogwarts career to continue, and yet… She had never slept so deeply, so restfully, as when she arrived in this village.

Besides, she had killed Voldemort. Her job was done. Prophecy fulfilled. Masses saved. Her world didn't need her anymore.

She  _deserved_ a vacation.


	2. The Simple Life of the Abjectly Terrifying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hariel is faced with the horrifying revelation that there is just something about her that has people running for the hills or paralysing in fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Red River!
> 
> A/N: I am absolutely overwhelmed by all the positive feedback for this fic! I never expected all of this! Thank you so much! All of you who favorited, followed, and reviewed - it means the world to me! Your support inspires me to keep writing!
> 
> I'm sorry it took me so long to update. I've been in a bit of a slump recently, what with college and exams and internship applications. But I hope you enjoy!

_Looks like harvesting season has finally arrived._

As Hariel walked around the set of small village homes and their nearby farms, she couldn't help but notice that the grass was greener than it was when she first got here… wherever 'here' was.

It had been a little more than a month since Hariel had mysteriously woken up in a lake in this charming little town smack dab in the middle of nowhere, and although Hariel was sure she had responsibilities and duties and people's expectations she had to attend to back home (when didn't she?), she found herself incredibly reluctant to part with the peace this place provided.

She had sent Hermione a patronus telling her she was alive and well - and that she just might stay wherever it was she was for a bit longer. Perhaps take a year sabbatical. Hariel had always wanted to travel around and experience different cultures (going to different countries looking for horcruxes while on the run did  _not_ count), and what better time to do so than the present? Voldemort was dead, killed by yours truly, the Death Eaters were defeated, said defeaters led by yours truly, the Ministry all crumbled and ready for rebuilding (she couldn't actually take credit for that. That was all Voldemort).

Hariel was done; the prophecy was fulfilled, the war won, the madman killed.

Now Hariel just wanted to relax and finally  _live_ a little before she had to go back and face everyone's demands of the  _Woman-Who-Conquered,_ as though she still owed them  _anything._

This little village was perfect; it was secluded, surrounded by nature, and not chock-filled with tourists like other more traditional vacation spots were.

Plus, the villagers here were finally warming up to her.

Case in point; the first time Hariel had timidly ventured into the small village market (about three weeks into her stay, when she had grown absolutely sick of eating only the meat she had hunted and the fruits that she had found in the forest and increasingly frustrated at how one of the laws of magic was that one couldn't conjure food) grand exclamations had been made and most of the merchants had run off into the nearest hut, leaving all their produce outside and unattended. Only one merchant had stayed – probably petrified with fear and incapable of movement, poor thing, but it had certainly served Hariel's purpose.

.

.

.

_Two weeks ago…_

Hariel slowly approached the lone merchant's stall, politely ignoring the faint trembling of his shoulders – Hariel didn't know what the socially acceptable thing to do was when someone was so frightened of you they were literally paralyzed, but she felt it must be like when someone's stomach growled in public or when someone tripped over nothing and the surrounding people politely pretended they hadn't noticed– and looked over the products offered. She spotted a few fruits and meats but wasn't interested in those. All of those fruits she had readily available to her in her forest, and she had easily hunted the local animals in the forest for meat. One of the reasons she had come to the market in the first place had been to escape the constant fruit and meat from her diet. Moving down the row of produce, Hariel's gaze locked onto a brown rectangular thing and –  _oh sweet Merlin, is that bread?_

Was it really? Were her eyes deceiving her? But no! Even after closing her eyes and opening them again repeatedly the brown rectangle of happiness and wonder was still there!

She picked the loaf up, noting how hard it was, and how surprisingly heavy it felt in the palm of her hand. She ran her thumb over the edge, surprised at the coarse texture, so different from the bread found back at home, which was light and fluffy, but despite the differences there was no denying it. This- This was-

_It's definitely bread!_

Now, some might wonder why Hariel was so enthusiastic about bread, and indeed Hariel wouldn't blame them. Previously, bread had never been something she was a fan of, per se, in fact she wouldn't have even thought to list it as one of her favorite foods, or even foods she particularly liked. But, as the saying very accurately stated, 'you never know how much you love something until it's gone'. This was very much the case with bread. After three weeks without eating bread, which had been so readily available to her even when she was on the run, Hariel found she missed it terribly. She had never realized how much she ate bread before that moment.

That day, Hariel made a silent promise that she would never be anything less than one hundred percent appreciative of bread ever again.

Animated by a new resolve to buy and eat this delicious-looking loaf of bread as soon as humanly possible, Hariel quickly looked back up to the merchant. This, however, proved to be a bad idea. Either the quickness of her movements or the new eagerness that overtook Hariel's expression, or perhaps a combination of both, scared the merchant even more, making him sway dangerously, as though he would faint at any moment. Thankfully, the merchant seemed to eventually regain his bearings, bracing himself against the side of his stall a bit before being able to stand back straight again.

Hariel took a moment to wonder, a little horrified at what exactly it was about her that scared all these people so much. She agreed that she looked quite different from them – the damnably white and unwilling-to-tan-but-very-willing-to-turn-lobster-red English skin provided a sharp contrast to their darker shades, and her green eyes stood out in a sea of brown ones. She also had to admit that her clothes were quite different from theirs; the expensive black robes and dragon-hide armor she had mercifully been sent into this foreign land with looked nothing like the cloths the villagers mostly sported.

And this was without even commenting on how her ruby red hair practically glowed in comparison to their brown and black heads.

But really, couldn't all these things just be chalked up to her being a foreigner? And how did they make her in any way intimidating? Hariel had been told, on multiple occasions actually, that when she wasn't mad her delicate-looking frame, relatively short stature, and long eyelashes made her look doll-like and harmless. Generally non-threatening or terror-worthy.

Apparently not to these villagers.

Of course, when she was mad she looked anything but harmless; a few of her soldiers had once nervously told her that when angry her green eyes would glow Avada Kedavra green and apparently her reactive magic would make the strands of her hair fly around her face as though they had a will of their own (even more so than they already did, the miserable, misbehaving things that they were).

Really, Hariel couldn't possibly think of a reason these villagers would be so terrified of her when they surely didn't know of her past or her ability with a wand. Perhaps there was something strange about the way she arrived in this land that frightened them?

Pondering this, Hariel frowned in frustration. That was actually a rather plausible answer, but she didn't have any way of confirming it because she had no way of asking the villagers and she had been unconscious herself during her time of arrival. All she remembered was waking up in a lake, anxiously observed by these spear-wielding men and women she had never seen before in her life.

The redhead's attention quickly refocused on the bread when said food appeared, shaking, in front of her. Having apparently gotten increasingly anxious by the small frown on Hariel's face as she deliberated, the merchant had gathered up all of his courage and tremulously handed Hariel the loaf of bread he had seen her previously focus on, probably hoping this would curb her displeasure somehow – and any consequences her displeasure might have upon him and his village.

The merchant's plan was a complete success, as all worries about why the villagers were so frightened of her fled Hariel, her thoughts wholly consumed by the prospect that she would soon be eating bread.

Taking the loaf with one hand and ignoring the way the merchant's hand shot away from hers at the speed of lightning the moment he was certain the bread wouldn't fall on the floor, Hariel used her other hand to search through one of her bottomless robe pockets to take out a galleon to pay the man.

She was aware that chances of galleons being the local currency in this small town were approximately zero, but galleons were made of gold and that was valued all around the world, wasn't it? At least she certainly hoped so.

When she stretched her hand with the galleon in it and offered it to him, the merchant seemed surprised that she was paying him anything at all. Hariel internally huffed at all these judgments the villagers were passing on her – did they think she was a criminal of some sort? Was that why they were so terrified of her and thought she would steal a loaf of bread? – but didn't let it bother her. She had spent entirely too long being governed by what people thought of her and she wasn't about to go back into the habit now.

Seeing the merchant look incredibly uncomfortable and having an idea as to why, Hariel decided to set the galleon in the middle of the stall table for the merchant to pick up. She had accurately guessed that the merchant was uncomfortable touching her hand – did they think she was disease-ridden as well? Or that if they touched her she would attack?  _Merlin_  – as the minute her hand retreated from setting the galleon on the table, the man picked it up to examine it.

As soon as he got a proper look at it, the merchant froze again, but this time not in fear but in apparent shock. Hariel had no idea what shocked the merchant like that but decided that he was much too prone to freezing and trembling for her tastes. This entire exchange had been taking much longer than it had to. If he would just hurry things up, then he'd be free of her apparently diseased, criminally inclined, terror-inducing self and she'd go back to her house and eat her bread.

Suddenly, the man seemed to regroup and started shaking his head frantically and speaking rapidly in his native tongue. Hariel sighed again because she had been fairly sure everyone here  _knew_  she didn't speak their language, and cursed herself once again for not learning the translation spell.

(Hariel ignored the part of her brain that reminded her how in war there was not much of a choice. Every second was spent learning spells to attack, defend, sabotage, and heal. Time not spent learning said spells was spent planning and discussing tactics, training her soldiers, and fighting off the enemy. If she had to speak to a foreign diplomat, one of her less battle-oriented advisors would perform the translation spell for her. Seemingly useless spells had no place in war.)

Acutely aware that a loaf of bread could not possibly be worth an entire galleon but growing tired of listening to what, to her, was incomprehensible babble, and impatient to just get home to eat her newly bought bread, Hariel made moves to leave the stall. Realizing this, the merchant appeared even more horrified. He finally stopped shaking his head and started shoving some more products into her arms, fear of touching her apparently forgotten in his frantic need to give her more things for her galleon.

 _Oh, so he's worried about cheating me,_ Hariel realized with a start.  _Well, that_ is _nice. A lot of people simply prey on tourists._

Hariel smiled slightly before grimacing as a thought occurred to her.

_Now I feel like an absolute toerag for thinking badly of the man._

Hariel reluctantly took everything the flustered merchant had shoved into her arms, some of it meat and fruit –  _damn it_  - but some bread and pink –  _what on Earth are those?_  – as well. She smiled at him (he was an honest man after all, and those were regrettably rare) before nodding and proceeding to walk back to her home in the forest, on her way back occasionally spotting a pair of eyes peeking from a hut's window or the crack of a door before hastily hiding again when they realized she had seen them.

.

.

.

That had been a few weeks ago, and Hariel laughed a bit at the memory. But now, things were so much better!

She had been to the market a few times since that day, and each time more and more people stayed when she appeared, apparently comforted by the fact that the merchants she deal with weren't mauled or infected by some lethal disease. Out of respect for the first merchant's bravery in staying to sell her goods when everyone else had run away – or perhaps just his terror that paralyzed him and didn't allow him to run away, whichever, Hariel didn't much care – Hariel usually went back to him for more food. But sometimes she ventured into other stalls as well, and had quickly discovered what seemed to be a dessert stall that she bought sweets en masse from.

In fact, she was just on her way to the village market place to buy her bread and sweets. As she walked through the village, Hariel noticed that most villagers stayed where they were if she passed them, although admittedly there was the occasional villager that ran back to his hut and hid from her.

Still. It was much better than before. At least not  _everybody_ was running for the sand dunes upon seeing her.

Which brought her back to the question of exactly why all these people were so terrified of her. Was it the Avada Kedavra green eyes? She'd had people tell her that her eyes made a frequent appearance in their nightmares (She'd had one arrogant bloke tell her they made a frequent appearance in his dreams of an entirely different sort, accompanied by a very much uninvited pat to her ass, but the resulting beat-down had ensured that her eyes would feature  _solely_  and  _prominently_ in his nightmares for the rest of his miserable life).

Was it because people thought she was a criminal on the run? Well, it was hard to argue against that. She  _had_  actually been one not too long ago. Or did people really think she was a violent, disease-ridden person? Was there something about her face that just screamed "violent criminal that will contaminate you with a deadly disease"? All of the neighbors at Privet Drive had believed the Dursleys when they said she was some sort of deranged juvenile delinquent, so maybe it really was just something about her?

Deciding to think less depressing thoughts, Hariel chose to observe the nature around her.

 _One of the best things about this small village is its nature_ , she thought. She had never seen anything quite like it. The village itself was located on grassy lands that they used for farming. To one side of the village was the forest where Hariel now lived. But to the other side were endless dunes of sand. Hariel had never seen the like before. It was beautiful.

And recently, the scenery had become even more beautiful.

While initially, the grass in the village had much resembled the color of please-just-kill-me-and-end-my-suffering straw, now it was the vibrant green only seen in places of wild natural beauty untouched by man (or one of Aunt Petunia's 'best lawn' competitions).

With the grass came colorful new flowers, fruits and vegetables. Why, just that morning Hariel had spent a solid hour admiring the blooming flowers around her area of the forest.

Hariel wondered how grass could change color so fast – even if suddenly it was in season for fruits and vegetables, could the grass's appearance truly change so completely in a matter of two weeks?

The young witch knew a little about caring for grass from being the one  _working_ on Aunt Petunia's lawn for her 'best lawn' competitions, and from the little – very little – she knew, she felt this sudden change in grass was a little bizarre.

(She'll have you know that Herbology was  _Neville's_  strong point, and even Hermione hardly bothered to compete with him in the area. With Neville as one of her closest generals during the war effort, anything herbology-related was delegated to him.)

Now that she thought about it, there had also been many hunters coming back with large catches as well.

Honestly, how did these people look so starved when there were so many animals in the forests, and they came back with a new big catch every day?

Hariel had worried that eventually the forest would run out of animals, what with how many deer and – were those  _gazelles_  and  _hyenas_ , just where was she?! – the villagers had been bringing back, that overhunting could lead to the downfall of the forest as well as the humans who depended on it for food, but her instincts reassured her that it would not come to that.

Hariel was a little skeptical, but… The Woman-Who-Conquered had survived this far thanks to her instincts. She wasn't about to start ignoring them now.

In the end, she resolved to simply be happy for the villagers for their time of plentitude. Questioning why the grass was so green sounded like something Luna would do, anyway, and although Hariel loved the quirky witch like a sister, she knew that doing anything like Luna without actually being Luna was generally a _bad sign_.

Besides, it was a wonderful thing to see the change in the villagers. Seeing their gaunt, half-starved faces slowly fill up with life was more beautiful than any blooming wildflower.

.

.

.

Hariel was kind of really weirded out.

No, really.

What the hell was going on?

She had been walking through the village, coming back from a productive trip to the village market place – a lot of bread and sweets and even what she thought might very well be  _wine_  – stuffed into her bottomless bag, when she felt a drop of water hit her cheek.

Quickly, she had looked up, seen the clouds, grey and angry-looking, and promptly cursed herself for having forgotten to bring an umbrella.

When she had looked back down from the sky, she was greeted with the sight of the villagers  _freaking the fuck out._

She didn't mean this in an 'oh, the villagers were surprised by the rain because they had also forgotten their umbrellas. They then proceeded to calmly walk to their homes for cover.'

No.

She meant that the villagers started laughing loudly – which wouldn't be a problem if some of the laughter didn't sound borderline hysterical. Some villagers got down on their knees and started crying, others got down on their knees and didn't stop there, deciding to  _prostrate_. Everyone abandoned what they had been doing to throw their arms heavenward. Hell, Hariel would have sworn even the cows and goats looked unduly ecstatic by the rain!

The redhead watched with a sort of distant fascination as more and more villagers all ran out of their homes and turned their faces heavenward.

Shoes were taken off, no thought given to the dusty ground that was quickly turning muddy, and hats were practically ripped off heads in people's haste to feel the water on their skin.

And then they started  _dancing._

They all grabbed each other's hands, matching smiles on all of their faces, and made a huge circle. To the rhythm of the pitter-patter of the droplets of rain hitting the floor, they twirled, the circle of humans first moving left, then moving right, then left again, the people always twirling, always laughing, always dancing.

Well, this  _was_  a fairly heartwarming sight, if rather random.

Maybe rain was sacred to them?

Hariel took in another second to take in the villagers' awed, elated faces.

Oh Merlin, it  _was!_ And here Hariel was, judging them and getting weirded out. That was so disrespectful! She had been the leader of a faction that  _fought_ for acceptance – not only of Muggleborns but also of magical creatures and members of all religions. She had even drunk pure dragon-blood during a gathering with goblins as a proof of her willingness to work with them and understand their culture! To think that she would judge others for simply practicing their religion! How shameful!

She had thought she was open-minded. Obviously not enough.

Wanting to rectify her moment of bigotry, Hariel looked around to see how she could pay her respects to the rain as well. Belatedly, she realized that the circle of dancing villagers had actually formed around her, with her as center.

Oh dear. How awkward. Was she supposed to do something?

Putting down her bag, which was still full of all the things she had bought at the market place, Hariel figured the safest bet was to copy what everyone else was doing.

And so she started dancing.

Under the rain, feeling her hair and clothes getting drenched, Hariel laughed as she too twirled under the raging sky.

It wasn't the organized dancing the villagers were doing, with complicated leg movements they had probably been taught as children. Nor was it the stiff, ballroom dancing Hariel had been forced to learn back in England.

No, Hariel danced the way she had always been meant to dance. She danced with no rules or regulations. She danced feeling the wet earth under her feet, the wind in her hair, the rain on her face. She danced as her body felt, with no plan or pattern. There was only the rhythm of raindrops hitting the ground, of thunder rolling in the distance. Her movements were not skilled, nor were they complicated, nor did they require any great dancing talent.

And yet, she felt powerful.

Hariel danced like she was free.

Together, she and the villagers danced all night long, for as long as the rain lasted. Sometime in the night, the large circle broke and people started dancing in pairs or trios. The villagers surprisingly got over their paralyzing fear of her, at least for the time of the rain, and she danced with many of them – men, women, children, elders – throughout the night. Looking at the villagers, sensing their joy and sharing in it, Hariel couldn't help the smile that refused to leave her face all night long.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so full of  _life_.

There was no thought as to how long she had been there, reveling in the hammering rain. All there was was the sound of the rain, the rhythm of feet on wet ground, the thrum of primal energy passing through Hariel, to the villagers, back to her again in a circle of renewal and celebration.

And so Hariel danced.

And twirled.

And laughed.

All under the pouring sky.

.

.

.

Hariel was currently in quite the dilemma.

Oh, it wasn't the villagers. They still acted a bit strangely, and after that night dancing under the rain they had mostly reverted to their skittish, trembling selves, but no longer did they seem so absolutely terrified of her. In fact, they kept smiling at her. Hariel would count that as a huge improvement.

Nor was it her house. She quite liked the small white hut she had made for herself. She even liked the fact that she had to hunt her next meal – she enjoyed the thrill of the chase. (What could she say? It was the adrenaline-driven Gryffindor in her).

No, Hariel's dilemma was that there was a wounded lion in front of her.

Now, any sane person would have noted the lion, seen that it was wounded, correctly concluded that that meant the lion was even more ferocious – as the 'animal backed into a corner' saying hadn't come from  _nothing_  – and turned right around.

As it so happened, Hariel sanity had been called into question ("Bonkers, Hariel. You're absolutely bonkers") on more than one occasion.

She also happened to suffer from a bad case of 'hero complex', which apparently was extended even to bloody ferocious  _carnivorous_  animals.

Cursing her Potter Luck, her stupidity, and her inability to see someone suffer when she could possibly save them (even when that someone was a huge  _lion_ ), Hariel slowly made her way closer to the great feline.

Sensing her approach, the lion pinned her with a fierce glare. Even from its position, lying hurt and bleeding on the forest floor, it posed an intimidating figure.

She couldn't help but admire the luxurious golden mane that the lion sported, its beauty not marred by the specks of blood in it but instead accentuated. His body was large and muscular; Hariel knew that he could crush her fragile and delicate frame with little effort. His paws sported fearsome talons, and one swipe would surely mean a human's death. Worse still were the sharp fangs that could be found in his large maw, threateningly opened in a growl at the moment actually, sending chills down Hariel's spine.

What was perhaps most striking about the lion, however, were his eyes. They held fiery passion, the desperate will to survive, the primordial desire to eat and fight and mate visible through bottomless amber pupils. There was an absolute intensity to them impossible to look away from.

He was primal energy confined in mortal fur and skin.

Slowly, Hariel struck her hand out, not wanting to surprise the lion with any sudden movements. Seeing as this garnered no reaction, Hariel approached the lion with cautious steps.

The large beast stared at her with those all too ancient eyes before growling once more. He made to get up from his lying position, possibly to attack her or just scare her off, but quickly fell back onto the ground with what Hariel thought was a pained grunt.

Resisting the urge to rush to the lion and help him immediately, as that would probably result in an arm being bitten off, Hariel resumed her slow approach of the lion. This time, the majestic beast seemed to be in too much pain to pay her much heed.

Upon closer inspection, Hariel noted that the blood was coming from the lion's leg. There was a large hole there, probably made by the horn of a gazelle, deep and red and wet and ugly. A normal woman might've cringed and looked away. She might have even run off to throw up at the sight.

Lucky for the lion, then, that Hariel was no normal woman.

Hariel had fought in war. Hariel had led her people to death. Hariel had had to hold comrades' intestines so they wouldn't fall out while they waited for a medic, had felt her own blood being boiled to the rhythm of her enemies' laughter, had slowly decapitated said enemies in cold revenge.

So all Hariel did was think,  _Some gazelle got incredibly lucky today._

Deciding to forgo any more pretenses, Hariel placed an immobilization spell –  _Petrificus Totalus_ was still as useful as it was as a Hogwarts first year _-_  on the lion. The great feline must have felt the sudden constraint in his movements and disapproved of it, as he growled at her viciously.

"Shhhhhh," She soothed, caressing his mane and marveling at the softness. "The sooner you stop fussing, the faster I can heal you."

No longer afraid of losing a limb in case the lion reacted badly, Hariel touched the lion's leg with gentle but professional hands. The lion was losing blood rapidly. If the wound were not closed soon, he would die. If not from blood loss, then from being handicapped and no longer able to hunt for food.

The lion growled louder the moment she touched him, and even louder as her hand ventured closer to his wound. His body was so tense Hariel was sure he'd have attacked her had she not immobilized him.

"Here I am, taking my time to heal you and all I get in thanks are growls and death threats. Madam Pomfrey was right; healer really is a thankless job."

Translating spells Hariel may not know, but healing spells she did. (Admittedly, they were mostly centered on healing wounds of war and lowering fevers, but she thought it still bloody counted.)

A quick  _Tergeo_ cleaned the dried blood surrounding the wound, allowing Hariel to have a better view of it. She concluded that the wound was not yet infected, and that there were no horn shards inside the wound itself.

Closing her eyes in concentration, Hariel whispered, " _Vulnera Sanentur"_.

It was a spell to heal deep gashes she had been quickly forced to learn during battle. As it was, Hariel watched impassively as muscle filled the hole and skin knit itself over it, soon covered by fur. There was a macabre beauty to it, she couldn't help but think, both disturbing and yet mesmerizing.

Of course, the process itself was painful, as Hariel hadn't had any anesthetic potions on her at the moment, especially not ones that would work on a massive lion, and taking the time to go back to her hut and get them might have meant healing the lion too late.

Said lion was currently glaring at her with such hatred Hariel almost took an involuntary step back, as well as slight fear, probably afraid she might choose to harm him again.

The emotion saddened her. Too often had she been hated and feared for trying to help others. It appeared even animals followed the same pattern.

But regardless, she hadn't done this for anyone's thanks. She especially didn't need an  _animal's_ recognition, majestic beast or not.

Wordlessly, she levitated the lion, ignoring his wide eyes and attempts to break the immobilization spell. She would take the lion to her hut, give him a blood-replenishing spell, then release him back into the wild where she'd never see him again.

Nodding at her own plan, Hariel walked through the forest, floating lion behind her.

.

.

.

A man knelt in a luxurious room, head bowed down so he could only see the smooth stone floor, on which not a speck of dust could be found. In the room, thick, imposing pillars of fine marble held up a ceiling painted in a rich, royal blue. Bright, priceless tapestries adorned the room's walls, depicting both scenes of great battle as well as of great prosperity. Next to the walls, on stone pedestals were numerous beautiful vases and small statues, with delicate markings no doubt lovingly etched by a sculptor of great talent.

In the center of the room stood a seat which was so opulent and so grand it could be described as nothing other than a throne, and seated upon it was a man so regal, with a presence so imposing, that he could be none other than royalty.

The royal looked down upon the kneeling man, and the latter could swear there was a physical weight to his gaze.

The kneeling man opened his mouth to speak, face still pointed to the ground, voice calm and steadfast, "My liege, there have been strange tales of late. Rumors of a goddess from beyond the lands who appeared a few moons ago," He reported. "According to rumor, there was a beam of light descending from the godly realm, shining its brilliance directly upon the sole lake in the area. From where the beam landed, a being of immeasurable beauty surged from the waters, like one of the sirens of legend, floating unnaturally until she reached the shore.

"The local villagers claim her presence brings fertility to the lands – it makes the grass greener, the crops bigger, the flowers more beautiful. Every day their farms grow more plentiful. They also insist that it is her presence that has brought more animals to their forest, and bigger game than they have ever before seen. They whisper she has even caused rain, a storm that could have been born only from Teshub, King of Heaven.

"They call her daughter of Teshub, Princess of Heaven."

There was silence, after, yet the informant's – for the kneeling man could only be an informant – last words reverberated in the luxurious room, as though carrying a power of their own.

"Hmmm… a goddess, you say?" The imposing figure spoke, breaking the silence. His voice was a smooth baritone, calm and refined yet holding strength and authority. The dismissal in his tone was a clear indication of exactly what he thought of this new 'goddess', however. "There constantly seems to be one of them roaming about the land. Always with delusions of grandeur, proclaiming themselves deities and ordering people to bow at their feet." The man took a hard tone, voice taking a steel-like quality, "Send scouts to investigate the area and report back to me. We cannot let this new cult spread too far. That is always annoying to resolve."

Imperiously raising his arm towards the still kneeling man, the regal figure dismissed him.

"Of course," The kneeling man rose with practiced grace and bowed at the waist to the noble figure.

"It shall be as you wish, Prince Kail."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: To all of those who want me to hurry up and have her meet our prince, fear not! It will happen! I just have some plans before we get to the main story arc!
> 
> Please leave a review and tell me what you think! I absolutely love reading them!


	3. Lions, Hyenas, and Rafiki the Crazy Monkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hariel and animals: Lions, Hyenas, and Rafiki the Crazy Monkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Red River, most unfortunately.
> 
> A/N: Oh wow! I'm so, so happy with all the positive responses! Thank you so much to everyone who followed, favorited, and especially reviewed! You guys keep inspiring me to write more!
> 
> And so, without further ado... I hope you enjoy!

If he had not had to act so princely in front of his subjects, Kail Mursili, His Imperial Highness, Third Imperial Prince of the Great Hittite Empire, would have groaned. Loudly.

It seemed like yet another wannabe god had appeared.

Kail couldn't repress the downward tilt of his lips, even had he wanted to.

He hated them.

These men and women who kept proclaiming themselves to be deities- he hated them. No, he  _loathed_ them.

Every once in a while one of them surged, like worms after rain, forcing the innocent and the naive to worship them and give them offerings. Fortunately, most times the people would eventually discover that the person was a fraud and deal with it accordingly themselves, but if the faux-deity spoke prettily enough and to a people who were desperate enough then he or she could amass a small following.

Kail grunted. He absolutely  _despised_  all these fake gods and goddesses. They were all the same. He found that in the face of the threat of prison they quickly lost all their supposed divinity and were ready to sacrifice any and all of their followers for a position amongst the imperial court.

Their groveling disgusted Kail.

He remembered one case he had encountered but a few summers ago, where a man had been parading around as the god of vegetation, Abu. He had asked for a virgin from the village to be brought to him once every two moons, and the villagers, overcome with fear that he might burn all their crops and thus condemn the village to death via starvation, had done as they were told.

The village, unfortunately, was rather small, and had quickly run out of virgins of age. The villagers were forced to send younger and younger girls to the supposed deity.

When Kail had arrived to investigate the situation, he had walked in on the man doing unspeakable things to a girl no older than ten summers.

Kail had killed him where he stood.

It was one death he did not regret.

The image of that little girl would always stay with him, a constant reminder of the horrors that people were capable of.

Kail found that those men and women who called themselves gods and goddesses quickly became drunk on their newfound power over the people that worshipped them and would take liberal advantage of it, often in the vilest of ways.

But Kail always stopped them.

Now there was another one who declared herself a goddess.

He was sure she was just like the rest – cruel, manipulative, ready to sacrifice anyone and everyone if it meant benefitting herself.

Kail couldn't wait for the moment the wretched woman realized her manipulations held no sway over him, the moment her face crumpled with the knowledge that she could no longer take advantage of the people he had sworn to protect.  _His_  people.

And it would come. Kail would stop her, whatever schemes she had. He already had a lifetime of experience thwarting the Queen's murderous attempts on him and his brothers; a smalltime fake goddess would be easy to stop. She was insignificant in the larger scale of things.

He would deal with her, and then he would move on, as he always had.

It was just a matter of time.

For now, he could only send someone to investigate her and hope that her actions were not overly cruel.

.

.

.

Hariel stared.

And stared.

And stared.

But no, the sight in front of her still wasn't making sense.

There was still a baby raised up to her face, Lion King style.

She half expected the expectant-looking couple holding up said baby to start chanting 'The Circle of Life".

The baby in question was looking at her with wide brown eyes, probably confused by her very different looks, the likes of which he had never seen before in his very short life (not even one year, if she hazard a guess). Still, she would bet that the baby was nowhere near as confused as she was with the situation right now.

The morning had started as expected. Hariel had woken up, taken a shower, made herself some tea, checked on the lion in her guest bedroom (the poor thing was in a spelled sleep in order to accelerate his healing), eaten a fruit for breakfast, and prepared to go out into the forest to hunt for lunch.

And then things had ventured into the unexpected, as they were wont to do.

When Hariel had opened the door, she had found an exhausted couple sitting on the grass on her lawn (much like one would camp outside the gates the day before for a concert) and holding a baby, looking like they had sat outside her hut all night.

And spent the previous day scouring the forest looking for her hut – both of them had scratches and bruises all over, their cloths torn in some places and their sandals on the verge of crumbling into dust.

Hariel hadn't needed to use any magic to tell they were exhausted. It was written in the lines of their faces, already prematurely aged by hard work, and the the sunken tilt of their eyes. The redhead had thoughtlessly invited them inside (by opening her door wide and motioning them in, a, as it turns out, universal gesture of welcome), which they hesitantly had.

Looking at their awed faces when confronted with her very much modern home, Hariel experienced a brief moment of worry, as it certainly wasn't normal to have been able to build a house like this in such short notice, but immediately dismissed it. These people looked like they had never seen a proper  _toilet_  before, they would never know how much time it usually took someone to build a home like this. They'd probably chalk it up to foreign technology and leave it at that.

With that thought in mind, and noticing the couple's dirty hands from spending the night in the forest (this sort of lack of hygiene couldn't be good for the baby, could it?), Hariel had led the couple to the bathroom. She had turned on the sink and washed her own hands to show them how it worked, but the poor couple had looked so alarmed by the modern appliance that she had compromised; she filled a bowl with soapy water and handed it to them along with towels.

Afterwards, she had immediately set to brewing her most relaxing tea for the couple while they rested a bit on her sofa. If she had added a slight magical healing herb to it in order for their bruises and scratches to heal a little more quickly, well then no one had to know, did they? Belatedly remembering the baby, Hariel had taken some milk from the fridge –purchased at the village market not too long ago – and heated it, transfiguring a glass into a baby bottle to pour it in.

Not a minute after having disappeared into the kitchen, Hariel had come back and offered the beverages to the couple. Initially, they refused, looking absolutely terrified (which only made Hariel more resolute in giving them the calming brew), but a stern glare had them cowering and falling over themselves to accept, looking as though they were signing away the rights to their firstborn child.

(Honestly, she hadn't  _poisoned_ it. Exactly what kind of monster did these villagers think she was? She thought they had been making progress!)

As soon as the first sip slipped its way into their mouths, however, their eyes widened and they had looked at the dainty English teacups in marvel. Hariel had been hard-pressed not to laugh at their childish wonder over something that, to her, seemed so simple.

Hariel smiled to herself amusedly. This impromptu vacation had, if nothing else, taught her to appreciate the small things in life.

The three spent some time sipping their tea quietly, the mother, after a brief moment of confusion, followed by another moment of marvel at the apparent ingenuity of it all, having figured out how to use the baby bottle to feed her child.

The parents had also used this time to look around Hariel's living room in what seemed to be awe, looking like they wanted to touch everything but were too afraid to do so.

If Hariel had known how to speak the language (damn translation spell), she would've told them they were welcome to take a look around, but as it was, she didn't, so she let it be.

Meanwhile, the couple had taken to talking in whispered voices to each other, low enough that Hariel could hear but not loud enough to disturb the peace of the moment.

Hariel wondered why they bothered whispering at all when she was fairly sure the entire village knew she didn't speak a word of their language (sodding translation spell).

What Hariel hadn't known was that the couple had been formulating a plan of attack, for mere seconds later the mother shoved their baby in Hariel's face, and so here she was, staring at some baby in utter bafflement and at a complete loss as to what the parents wanted her to do with it.

Deciding that this painfully awkward silence had gone on long enough, Hariel tried to say something.

"It's a beautiful baby."

No response.

"Really. So is this your son?"

No reaction.

"So what's his name?"

Expectant stares.

Hariel would've sighed in aggravation if she hadn't been sure that that measly sound of minor discontent would've sent the couple running for the hills – or the sand dunes, in this case - in terror over what she might do.

Were they the kind of parents who expected strangers to fall in love with their child and want to hold him and shower him with kisses or something?

Well, her previous strategy obviously wasn't working, so why not try a new one?

She'd play Rafiki to their Mufasa and hold the damn thing.

Slowly, as to not feel threatening and scare the baby – Merlin knows she had already terrified the adults in this village, she didn't want the baby to follow their example – she took the child from the couple with practiced ease and held him gently in her arms.

Holding a baby wasn't a new experience for her, as she  _was_ Teddy's godmother and had generally spent every moment not fighting in the war with the adorable little metamorphagus.

Hariel sighed at the reminder.  _Teddy._ She had full confidence that Andromeda was taking good care of him, but she missed her little boy. She'd have to cut her vacation short, if only to see her godson soon. Maybe she'd take him with her on her next vacation.

(Because there  _would_ be a next vacation. She was having entirely too much of a good time here not to do it again).

Looking at the baby in her arms, Hariel felt her face soften. Even she was weak against maternal instinct, it seemed. It didn't help that this baby was absolutely adorable (and so quiet and well-behaved too!), but what on Earth did the parents want her to do-

That was when she felt it.

_This child is dying._

She wasn't quite sure how she knew. Perhaps spending so much time surrounded by Death had sharpened her senses when it came to the ultimate, inevitable end of all mortal beings. Perhaps the reunion of all Deathly Hallows under one person really did have certain consequences. Hariel didn't know.

But she knew this child was dying.

Hariel looked at the parents, finally taking heed of their sorrowful expressions, the way they clung to each other so tightly, the desperate curve of their hands, nails digging into each other's skin, as they looked at their child in her arms.

_They know that their child is dying._

How cruel life can be, Hariel mused. To give life, to allow parents to love their child, only to take him away before he could ever have a chance to truly live _._

_Why is he dying?_

Hariel couldn't very well pull out her wand and perform magic in front of the couple, but she was powerful enough for a wandless and wordless diagnostic charm. Discreetly pressing her thumb to the child's bare skin, a pulse point on his neck, she chanted the fairly simple spell in her head, and she found out exactly what was wrong with him.

 _The child's lungs aren't functioning properly_.

The baby's lungs were lethally underdeveloped. They made it so that he was always out of breath, barely managing to inhale enough oxygen to support basic human functions. It was the reason the baby had been so silent all this time – he hadn't even had the breath necessary to cry. And the condition would only get worse as he got older and required more oxygen to sustain a larger body that his lungs simply couldn't provide.

If Hariel didn't do anything, the child would die before he reached the age of five.

 _Unacceptable_.

Hariel's magic flared.

_I refuse to accept this child's death._

Hariel knew she shouldn't.

She knew.

It would violate the Statute of Secrecy, for one. It would go against everything she had ever been told. If word spread, it had the potential to cause a Wizarding Crisis akin to the Witch Trials of the 17th Century.

She couldn't even obliviate the couple later, for fear that they had told someone else of their visit to her. If they had, and the person asked them how their visit to Hariel had gone only to find the two people with a suspiciously timed blank in their memories, they would immediately connect it to her. And Hariel wasn't proficient enough to create new fake memories to replace the ones obliviated.

She really, really shouldn't.

Looking into the big brown eyes of the baby in her arms, so full of innocence, and the tearful ones of the parents in front of her, Hariel didn't care.

She didn't care.

Hariel, as cold and cunning as she was on the battlefield, was ultimately a creature of passion.

Furthermore, there was that debilitating case of hero complex.

She couldn't allow this child to die.

Decision made, Hariel forcefully reined in her magic. She really had to learn to control it better. Hariel had always been more in tune with her magic than others, treating it as a second skin or a sixth sense rather than just a tool with which to perform spells. It was not a conscious decision, but rather how she had always been. Always better at the practical side of magic than the theory – she left the academic stuff to Hermione.

Hariel didn't regret it; just the thought of living without her close relationship with magic made her feel empty inside, but it could be… inconvenient, at times. For one, her magic was highly responsive to her emotions, and in times of fear, anger, and even extreme joy, it had a bad habit of coming out unbidden.

And her magic never went unnoticed.

Magic was a thick, potent, thing. It was a combination of the energies of the world and the energies of the self. It flowed in whatever area it was in and filled every corner it could reach. In high densities, it was a viscous thing, so that wading through it felt like swimming in honey.

Whenever she used magic, Hariel felt more aware. Every image was sharper, every noise louder, every smell stronger. Her body filled with energy, and Hariel felt like she was capable of anything.

And yet, as magic heightened the senses, so too could it cloud the mind.

Magic was a heady thing, and Hariel had once gotten herself and everyone else in the room drunk just by flaring hers. With enough power, even muggles could feel it.

And Hariel had power in spades.

It made control harder. She had to shut her eyes and concentrate on pulling her magic back into her, but it was akin to trying to put clouds in a jar, or channeling a lake through a tiny funnel.

Theoretically possible, but hell in practice.

Hariel wasn't some Hogwarts first year, though, and she had spent years practicing control over her magic. Nothing quite like continuous attempts on your life to motivate a person. After a few moments, her magic returned inside her, so that it was a mere hum under her skin, background noise she ignored with practiced ease.

Closing here eyes, Hariel concentrated.

She would need every bit of control she had to heal this child.

She was acutely aware she couldn't use a wand. She may be passionate, but she hadn't won a war by being foolish.

Healing the child wandlessly meant there was a chance that the parents would think she hadn't performed any magic at all, and that their child had simply healed by himself, coincidentally right after visiting her. Healing with a wand was always flashier, and would make them immediately think of ' _witch'_.

(Besides, muggles had the uncanny ability to rationalize all odd things so that they fit their idea of the world. How many times had Hariel seen muggles explain away the messenger owl movements as migratory patterns, the flash of a spell as a trick of light, the sighting of a magical creature as a myth perpetuated by the unreasonable?)

Furthermore, she was not about to let perfect strangers see the object she relied on for most of her powers, lest they use that knowledge against her someday. Of course, an alternative course of action was to take the child to another room and perform the spell there, but she doubted the couple would allow her, a potentially criminal and disease-ridden stranger, to leave with their child to do something away from parental supervision, and she didn't particularly feel like fighting two grown adults in order to heal their baby.

Her only option was to perform wordless, wandless magic and hope that the couple did not associate her with their son's healing. She was rather confident in her chances, after all muggles didn't usually think of magic as the answer to unsolved questions. They were much more likely to dismiss it as coincidence.

Hell, the Dursleys had denied magic's existence even after Dudley has spontaneously sprouted a pig's tail.

Hariel took a deep breath, clearing her mind.

This wasn't like the diagnostic charm she had done earlier; this was a more complicated spell. Large-scale wandless magic was a complex thing – there was a reason not many wizards and witches could do it. First, one had to empty the mind of all thoughts. Then, one had to concretely visualize your magical core. Upon reaching it, one had to concentrate on taking a wisp of power and to shape it into the desired spell, and then will it hard enough that it takes effect.

If magic was baking cookies, then wordless magic was baking cookies without any utensils.

Wordless and wandless magic was doing it without a stove.

Hariel focused on her magical core, imagining it in her mind's eye as wild, multicolored flames forming a sphere. The first time she had ever laid eyes on it she had spent the rest of the day staring in awe at its beauty, but now she barely spared it a second glance. Instead, Hariel focused on a particular wisp of flame and coaxed it out of the sphere, so that it was a simple tendril of orange flame in the dark. Focusing solely on the tendril, she slowly shaped it into the necessary figure. It was hard; as soon as she shaped one end of the tendril, the other end reverted back to its wild form. Magic was a wild thing and didn't want to be controlled. Hariel had to concentrate on all parts of the tendril at once in order to form the proper shape for the spell.

It gave her a headache.

Once she finished successfully shaping the entire magical tendril into the spell, she gently pressed her lips against the boy's forehead in the guise of a motherly kiss. She concentrated on sending her magic to her lips, the mouth being a focal point for magic, and from her lips willed it into the child. A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of her neck, and for a second she thought the spell might fail, but eventually she felt the warmth of her magic leave her lips and spread out to the baby's small body.

Immediately after, the baby started to cry.

It was a beautiful sound.

.

.

.

Hariel stilled as she attempted to control her breathing. Darkness seemed to cling to the edges of the forest, enshrouding its mysteries and hiding possible threats. And yet, somehow, one could always feel the weight of eyes pressing down from the darkness.

Hariel gripped the hilt of her sword more tightly.

Taking a controlling breath, the witch spread her senses outward, tensing her body- ready to react at any faint noise, any minuscule movement, any shift in the air.

The rustle of leaves.

The smell of wilderness.

The beauty faintly illuminated by moonlight.

But now was not the time to admire such things.

Hariel's body was tense as she hid behind the cover of the trees, making sure she was downwind so that her scent didn't carry.

Adrenaline coursed through her body.

_Soon… Anytime, now…_

In the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of movement.

_There!_

Swiftly, she moved through the shadows of the trees. She followed the flicker, running to catch up with it. Trees and roots were mere blurs to her as she gave herself in to the night. The trick to running in a forest was to not think.

It was instinct in its purest form.

With silence that was almost unnatural in a human, she finally caught up to the flicker so that they were a mere few meters apart. Sensing that running was futile, the flicker stopped and turned to face her.

In the pale glow of the moonlight, Hariel was able to finally get a good luck at the one she had been chasing.

Dark spotted brown fur became silver in the moonlight. Eerie yellow eyes glowed from within the dark that the leaves' shadows left on its face. Sharp white fangs glistened from a feral snarl. Agile muscles tensed – to flee or to attack, Hariel wasn't sure.

It was a hyena.

More importantly, it was prey.

And Hariel was the predator.

It may have seemed odd to some, to hunt during the night. People couldn't see as well, were more likely to be taken by surprise. And there was that small, instinctive part inside all humans that harbored a primal fear of the night and the darkness it brought. It spoke of the things that go bump in the dark. Of the horrors best left unseen. Of the creatures left to roam once the sun went down and they were hidden from curious eyes.

Hariel had no such compunctions.

Living on the run for as long as she had, she had learned to wield the darkness instead of fear it. She had become one of its creatures instead of its prey.

Besides, hyenas were nocturnal animals. And they tasted surprisingly good.

(Perhaps the idea of eating hyena would not be appetizing for most, but hunting deer had always felt a touch cannibalistic to Hariel, given her father's animagus form. And after a while one got sick of the taste of gazelle meat, and, well, Hariel was always up for trying new things – that included foods.)

Looking her soon-to-be dinner in the eye, Hariel readied her sword.

Not the most conventional weapon to hunt with, but Hariel had always been shit with a bow and hunting with a wand took the fun out of it. There was no thrill, no challenge.

Hariel liked the chase.

(She obstinately did not think about what it said about her character. If pressed, she simply attributed it to the adrenaline-junkie Gryffindor in her.)

The red-haired witch found herself hunting twice as often now, as she had to provide for the cantankerous lion sleeping away in her home. The beast still glared at her, even when she generously fed him meat multiple times a day, the ungrateful twat.

Just as she was about to attack the hyena, Hariel heard a human scream, accompanied by the distinctive high-pitched cackling of hyenas.

Hero-complex immediately kicking in, Hariel ignored her prey in favor of running in the direction of the voice.

After barely a minute, Hariel came upon an open, rocky space that was completely illuminated by the moonlight.

There, she found a man wearing a bloodied tunic and clutching a spear, two hyenas dead at his feet.

The man was not yet safe, however, for surrounding him were fifteen more hyenas, all forming a circle around him so that he was backed up against a large rock with no way to escape.

There was a grim tension in his jaw that spoke of resigned acceptance.

That spear wouldn't be enough.

(Still, the man stood proudly against the encroaching animals, his final moments would be in fierce battle, not cowering against a rock. Later, Hariel would spare the time to admire his conviction).

The redhead wasted no time. Barely had the image registered in her brain, did she pounce on the hyena closest to her. In these situations, it was best to decrease their numbers as quickly and swiftly as possible.

With incredible speed and strength that belied her size, Hariel swung her sword so that she fluidly decapitated the first hyena. Its head went flying, showering red drops all over the rocks in the clearing and on Hariel's clothes.

Using the advantage of surprise, Hariel promptly moved on to the next hyena and stabbed it in the neck, not fully decapitating it like the first one, but getting the job done just as well. Sensing a fast-approaching presence behind her, Hariel turned, bloodied sword out in front of her. This soon proved to be a wise move as the hyena that had jumped out at her impaled itself on her sword, snarling jaws wide open, unable to stop its descent while Hariel didn't have to move an inch.

_Three down, twelve more to go._

Hariel did not stop fighting. Slash after slash after slash, she systematically cut down the hyenas. Letting the battle instinct honed by years of war guide her, she flowed through the attacking animals gracefully. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and Hariel rejoiced in the feeling. She did not know how much time had passed. It could have been a few seconds, minutes, hours. She wasn't sure. All that was present was the feeling of sword cutting through flesh, of brief encounters with death as sharp claws and fangs came perilously close to human skin, of the sound of mad, high-pitched cackles diminishing one by one.

So consumed was Hariel in her battle that she failed to notice the wide-eyed man staring at her, his gaze fixed upon her form, frozen in awe at the battle prowess of the one in front of him. It was lucky for him that the hyenas were fully concentrated on Hariel, for had one of them decided to attack him, he would not have even had the awareness to raise a hand in self-defense, so transfixed was he by the sight before him.

Eventually, after an indeterminate amount of time, all of the animals lay bloodied and dead at Hariel's feet.

Hariel did not realize the sight she made. Standing proudly amidst the fallen bodies of the beasts she defeated, the moon shining behind her and creating a halo around her head, Hariel cut an otherworldly figure. Her wild ruby locks fluttered in the wind, and emerald eyes seemed to glow with a power of their own. Her porcelain white skin shined, as though kissed by the moon itself, and provided an eerie contrast to the vibrant red hyena blood splattered upon her.

In that instance, she was the night itself.

Slowly, the battle high she felt during her fight with the hyenas left her, and Hariel turned to the other human in the clearing. She smoothly approached the man she had saved.

Although she could not see as well due to the darkness of the night, Hariel knew she had never seen this man before in the months she had spent at the village, and the village was small enough that she had seen all of its villagers. Even if she hadn't, however, it was obvious this man was not from here. His hair seemed silkier, and his build was slightly more muscled than what she had observed in the locals. His clothes, while similar in style to that of the villagers', were, upon further observation, made of better material, and his spear was of a different style than the ones she had seen the villagers' wield.

A tourist like her, then? Although why someone might want to come to this antiquated corner of the world when they weren't escaping from the Wizarding World eluded her. He had probably come to the forest to hunt some hyenas as well, but was surprised by their number.

Although it was strange that he had chosen to hunt during the night – Hariel had thought she was the only one to do so. But what other explanation was there for his being there?

Hariel snapped out of her interior ramblings at the man's voice.

" _Dingirmeš istananaas… Ištarparā handandatar memahhi."_

It seemed the traveller spoke the same language as the villagers. Well, given his tunic he probably wasn't from very far. Perhaps it was a whole secret region that was still stuck in the Bronze Age? Fascinating.

Knowing whatever she said would be incomprehensible anyways, Hariel chose to remain silent.

The man apparently was not offended at her lack of response to his comment – question? Remark? Exclamation? She had no idea because she was a bloody idiot  _and had never learned that damned translation spell_  – and startled her by swiftly falling to one knee in front of her.

At first, she though he had gotten woozy due to blood loss and fell because of that, but upon further observation of the man, she realized the blood that stained his tunic was not his, but rather belonged to the two hyenas he had killed.

_Hmmm… Not completely untrained in battle, then._

Which left her with a man that was willingly kneeling in front of her. His head was bowed and his right hand was shaped like a fist and rested above his heart.

Hariel sighed. It appeared the traveller thought he owed her a life debt. She had experienced such things in the Wizarding World often enough, but she had not thought that muggles adhered to the same standards. Those in Britain certainly hadn't. It was not as though their magic would be taken from them if they went against the life debt, after all – they had no magic to begin with.

How troublesome. Trust Hariel to find the sole muggle who adhered to the practice of life debts. What was she supposed to do with him? She already had a lion to take care of and the man kneeling in front of her probably had a family to get back to. He looked young still (although older than her); he shouldn't have to be burdened by all the responsibilities of a life debt just because he miscalculated the number of hyenas on a standard hunting trip. It wasn't fair to him. He still had his whole life ahead of him.

Yes, the best option was to leave the young man and let him live out the rest of his days without this burden. Besides, Hariel had already amassed numerous life debts from many people and she hardly knew what to do with those. She didn't need any more.

Hariel glanced at the seventeen hyenas that decorated the rocky surface of the clearing they found themselves in. It would be annoying to have to carry all of them back to her hut the muggle way – it would involve six different trips at  _least._

_Well, there's no helping it then._

The witch looked back at the man still kneeling in front of her – and  _Merlin_ , some time had passed already and this was  _rock_  under his knee. Wasn't he uncomfortable? – and sighed. Sheathing her sword so that he would not feel threatened, she slowly placed her hand lightly upon his head.

The man's grey eyes flickered to her own bright green ones with indecipherable emotion at the contact and Hariel felt almost bad for what she was about to do.

Closing her eyes once more, Hariel brought forth a charm that required little concentration on her part, despite being cast wordlessly and wandlessly, due to her familiarity with it. Little more than a second later, she felt the magic leave her core and seep into the man's through her fingertips.

Immediately, the man crumpled at her feet, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, completely unconscious. With quick movements, Hariel grabbed his head so that it wouldn't crack against the rocky ground. Instead, she laid him gently in as comfortable a position as was possible when lying on rock. The man didn't react to anything.

_The stunner truly is a wondrous charm._

Sighing in relief, Hariel cast a levitation charm on the hyenas she killed. She left the two hyenas the man had killed in the clearing. He had earned them. Besides, even for a lion, seventeen hyenas was a bit much.

Casting a disillusionment charm on the man so that he would not be attacked while unconscious, and an additional ward around him and the hyenas he killed (wouldn't want his hard-won dinner stolen by scavengers, especially not after everything the poor bloke had gone through) as insurance, Hariel nodded to herself. Her job was done.

As silently as she had arrived, although less dramatically (if one discounted the fifteen hyena corpses trailing after her), Hariel left the rocky area and started walking back to her home in the forest.

The man no longer had a savior to owe a life debt to- he could hardly serve someone who wasn't there, could he? He would move on with his life, travel a bit more before going back to his family, perhaps be more wary of hyena packs the next time he went hunting at night.

Problem solved.

And so Hariel left with no worries, not realizing how the events of that night would immeasurably complicate her future.

.

.

.

"It's time to wake up, Godric."

Hariel was in her little hut's guest bedroom, a dubious name for the room, actually, as it no longer sported a bed. Instead, the floor was covered with a large, deep red rug. And on that rug lay the lion she had been tending to for the last week.

Yes, she had decided to name him Godric. No, it wasn't very original. Still, she couldn't just keep calling him 'the lion' in her head. And she had felt 'Godric' appropriate. A tribute to her House and a reminder of her roots.

Looking at the motionless lion in front of her, still confined by the immobilization spell, Hariel frowned.

She had tried to be kind to the lion during his stay here, visiting frequently and making sure he was always well nourished. She had even limited the immobilization spell so that it was not total immobilization, merely making it so that the lion was unable to stand. But she knew, deep in her bones, that there was something inherently wrong in constraining such wild beauty, such primal freedom. And yet, what other choice did she have? Her healing skills were not that of a professional healer's, and she feared that allowing the lion to walk or even stand might put pressure on the wound and aggravate it. Plus, she was sure the lion would not have appreciated being locked in her guest bedroom, no matter how comfortable the rug she had placed him on was, and would have tried to claw his way out. Her furnishings, if nothing else, were thankful for his immobilization.

Hariel stopped fretting. It mattered little now. Today was the day she set him free.

"You should be glad, Godric. Today you will return to your home, wherever it is," She ran a hand in his mane, luxuriating in its feel for one last time before she had to let him go. She had gotten strangely attached to the lion, probably a consequence of not having anyone else she could talk to. Casting a last diagnostic charm on the lion, she confirmed, "Your wound has fully healed now. You should have no trouble walking, or even running if you wish. Do try to be careful of gazelles in the future though. King of Beasts you might be, but impervious to injury you are not."

Of course, Godric couldn't understand her. He continued to eye her mistrustfully. Hariel didn't blame him. If she were in his position and a strange human had kidnapped her when wounded and kept her locked up in a room for a week, she'd have been mistrustful too.

Hariel realized she was stalling. She hesitated in allowing the one constant presence during her stay here to leave.

Identifying the cause of her hesitation as pure selfishness, Hariel immediately stood back up, startling the lion with her sudden movement. She couldn't allow the lion a minute longer of captivity just because she was feeling lonely. If she was feeling truly deprived of contact, then she could simply head back home. She had no need to torment an animal. With a flick of her wand, Hariel levitated Godric and led him out of the house, being especially careful in the hallway so that he didn't bump against anything, and into the forest.

As expected, Godric hissed at her with all the venom he could muster under the immobilization spell. He was no more happy about being levitated than he had been the first time she performed the spell on him.

Finally reaching a small clearing a distance away from her hut, Hariel gently laid Godric down. The lion stopped hissing, but his gaze never left her form, eyeing her warily.

Keeping her wand out and ready, Hariel whispered so that the words carried with the wind.

" _Finite Incantatem."_

There. The spell was lifted. Godric was free to go wherever he chose.

The lion must have sensed the spell being lifted, as he immediately got to his feet and jumped towards her with a vicious snarl, ready to tear her to bits with a wide jaw and sharp fangs, and Hariel opened her mouth to apparate right out of there.

Except, suddenly, he stopped. Paused in midmotion. Almost as though he had been hit by another immobilization charm.

Against her better judgment (Hermione wondered at its existence, but Hariel swore it was there! She just rarely listened to it), Hariel stayed to watch Godric and his strange behavior.

Still looking at her as one does an enemy – or at the very least particularly tricky prey – Godric moved his leg a bit, cautiously, as though expecting a pain in his hind leg, the location of his previous injury. His eyes widened when he felt nothing, and he turned around to stare at the previously injured limb, completely ignoring her in the face of this new revelation. Godric then proceeded to walk a bit to the right, then walk a bit to the left. He then walked a bit faster, and faster, and faster, until he was fully running, making circles around the clearing.

Hariel could only look on with a wide smile on her face as she watched the beast revel in his restored body.

It felt only right that such a magnificent beast be restored to his previous might.

After about half an hour, Godric stopped running. He took in a loud breath before roaring triumphantly with all the power of a thousand wild beasts.

The roar reverberated around the forest, and Hariel saw several birds fly out of trees in fear of the sound.

_King of the Beasts indeed._

Hariel would have been frightened by the roar, except she sensed no ill intent from the lion. In fact, if lions could look contemplative, he looked it.

This was also the reason she didn't apparate away as soon as Godric approached her.

It was a strange thing.

She had seen him every day for the past week while she nursed him back to health, and yet still she was left breathless as she paused to fully take him in.

He truly was a magnificent beast.

The sunlight hit his form just right, so that it seemed as though his already golden fur was glowing.

And…

And he was so  _big_. Hariel had thought so when he was laying down wounded on the forest floor, and again when he rested on the rug of her guest bedroom, but as both of these times he had been laying down, she hadn't quite understood just  _how_ big he was. There, standing on all four legs, chin held high, the lion was massive. In fact, he was taller than she was.

Which wasn't saying much, actually, as she was damnably short. But she only just barely passed the lion's shoulders. She was fairly sure the lion was as tall as  _Ron_ , and Merlin knew the gangly man was an entirely unjust 5'9.

Were lions supposed to be that tall? She had only ever seen them in pictures and tapestries, and she couldn't recall ever seeing a human next to them so that she could compare relative sizes.

Perhaps more impressive than his size, however, was the sheer potential in the lion's body. Potential for speed. Potential for power.

Potential for violence.

Forcefully shaking her head from such unexpected thoughts, Hariel smiled. "Not so angry at me now, are you, Godric? I  _did_ tell you I just wanted to heal you. You're the one who made such a fuss about everything."

The lion, of course, didn't respond.

"I suppose this is where we say our good-byes," Hariel's smile faltered a bit. She  _had_ grown attached to the lion, even if he had hissed and growled and generally threatened to disembowel her throughout most of their interactions. Oh, well. Leaving him was for the best. Godric would finally be able to return to his home, wherever that was. Perhaps he had a lioness and cubs that were waiting for him, he  _was_ a handsome young lion after all. In fact, didn't lions travel in prides of one lion and many lionesses? Godric probably had a  _harem_ of lionesses, the absolute dog! "For what it's worth, even if you hated me the entire time, I enjoyed having you. Go enjoy your life of debauchery with your lioness harem. I wish you the best of luck." Then, as an afterthought, included, "And remember to stay away from angry gazelles!"

And so, with a last fond look at Godric the lion, who was still looking at her contemplatively, she walked out of the clearing.

And such ended the tale of the witch and the lion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit of a slow chapter, but it needed to be done. Soon things will speed up! 
> 
> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think! 
> 
> P.S. Cookie to the person who can tell me who the man Hariel saved is.


	4. When Being a Disease-Ridden Violent Criminal isn't Bad Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hariel creates a hot spring, ventures into dangerous creeper waters, and braces herself to be scolded in a language she still doesn't know because she doesn't have the bloody translation spell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Red River. 
> 
> A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait! My grandmother was hospitalized a few months ago and it's been a stressful time for me and my family.
> 
> But now she's out of the hospital and things are going well! She still has to use an oxygen tank most of the time, but she's back home and eating properly. 
> 
> I had lost a lot of inspiration in part due to all this, but rereading all your reviews made me want to start writing again. So thank you so much for your support, I apologize for the long wait, and here is the next chapter! 
> 
> Warning: A fair bit of swearing in this one, as well as mentions of violence.

"Oh Merlin, this is heaven!" Hariel sighed in absolute, utter contentment. "I should have thought of this  _ages_ ago."

Hariel was currently lying naked in a hot spring of her own creation, relaxing against the edge of a smooth rock. She could feel the steam rise up from the hot water, taking with it all the tension in her body.

Yesterday, she had come upon a rocky area in her forest a few minutes from her home. As she had been barefoot at the time – a habit she had picked up recently and was very much reluctant to give up, who knew being shoeless felt so liberating? Besides, just imagining the Dursleys's reactions to someone associated with them walking around barefoot was enough to make her do it – she had sensed heat from the rocks underneath her feet. With a little show of magic, she had made a small hole in the rock, running down a few meters, and was surprised to find hot water gurgling up. With barely contained excitement surging through her, and with a considerable lack of finesse and unnecessary destruction (honestly, what was  _wrong_ with her control these days?), she had created a pool-sized crater in the middle of the rocks. She had been delighted to see the crater quickly fill up with steaming water. A few flicks of her wand and the rocky sides of her crater were smoothed out, the water cast with a permanent heating charm, and any errant bugs or patches of soil removed.

She had created her very own hot spring! And an outdoor one, at that! Sure, she had a bath back in her hut, but it just didn't compare. Even the prefect's bathroom, with their obnoxiously large bath (really, the only thing that made being prefect worthwhile), couldn't quite compare to her new hot spring's natural magnificence.

Admiring her work once more, Hariel submerged herself in the water, opening her eyes once she was under and swimming to a deeper part of the hot spring.

She felt like a small feather, or maybe a soap bubble, floating freely through the wind, weightless, burdenless, free.

In such a state of relaxation, Hariel's mind couldn't help but wander.

It had been a little more than two months since she had arrived in this small village, and they were perhaps some of the best two months of her life.

She was at peace here.

Briefly, Hariel felt guilty about leaving Wizarding Britain to deal with the post-war mess. Personally, she felt that killing Voldemort and his followers was the easy part. Completely reshaping Wizarding Society and reconstructing a functional and equitable governing body- now  _that_  was where the true battle lay.

A part of Hariel told her that she should go back. It would be easier for progress to be made if she was there, not only due to the intimidation her power granted her, or the idolization and adoration that the people directed at her for her killing of Voldemort, but also because, despite everything, Hariel was quite good at politics.

(To her absolute horror.

She blamed  _everyone_.)

And the politically oriented part of her mind – brutally cultivated by Hermione (through lectures and research), Rita Skeeter (through trying to avoid being conned and discovering that as an Heiress she had rights to the protection of her name, among other perks), and Sirius Black (loveable bastard had made her the Black heiress, forcing her to inherit the absolute mess that was  _that_  family, on top of having already been the bloody Potter heiress) – urged her that now, right after she had defeated Voldemort and the people were riding on the high of victory, was the perfect moment to make several sweeping reforms.

But Hariel was tired.

Tired of wannabe Death Eaters chasing her.

Tired of the Wizarding public hounding her as though they had some sort of innate right to her time and body.

Tired of looking at faces and being reminded of all the ones she couldn't save.

Tired of Wizarding Britain.

And so, even missing her friends, even missing her godson, even craving someone who spoke her language, Hariel didn't dare apparate back home and destroy the peace she found in this place.

And something… something she couldn't quite put a name on told her that this was exactly where she should be (There was a 96% chance that unnamable something was her own self-gratification and laziness, but she'd stick with "unnamable something").

The only thing that gave her a pinprick of worry was that Hermione hadn't answered her patronus yet.

That worry soon found itself evaporating along with the steam of the hot spring, however.

(What could she say? Hariel had been raised in a way where she was allowed one five-minute shower a day at the Dursleys's. Long, luxurious soaks in the water were her weakness).

Hariel knew that Hermione had plans to return to Australia and restore her parents' memories after the war. Hariel had offered to accompany her bushy-haired friend, but Hermione had said that this was something she had to deal with alone. Hariel had understood that, and decided to respect Hermione's privacy while being only a patronus away in case her friend ever felt the need for support.

Hermione was probably going through an emotionally trying time, seeing her parents again after so long and having to explain to them that, not only did they have a daughter, but that their daughter was a witch, and a witch who had erased their memories because she participated in a magical war against other wizards who would kill people like her parents for sport.

Yeah, Hariel didn't blame Hermione for not making answering her patronus a priority.

A small, repressed, but insistent part of Hariel couldn't help but wonder if Hermione wasn't answering her because the bushy-haired witch resented the person that had, unintentionally, but no less irrefutably, forced her to join the war that left her with no option but to wipe the memories of the only family she had ever had.

Quickly, Hariel pushed the thought away. She couldn't think that way. She wouldn't. Thinking that way only brought misery. If Hermione heard her thoughts she was sure her friend would smack her with a book or something.

(Hermione had always been incredibly hypocritical in how she treated books and how she allowed others to treat books.)

Anyway, Hermione needed time. And Hariel could give her that.  _Would_  give her that. It was the very least she could do after everything.

Meanwhile, she would continue to enjoy her vacation.

Frankly, Hariel also needed some time.

And things were mostly taken care of. On the off chance that Hermione hadn't informed the others that she was safe, Hariel had sent Andromeda, her godson's caretaker, a patronus telling her she was taking a vacation for an indeterminate amount of time.

She had also sent a patronus to Kinglsey, the current Minister of Magic, informing him that he shouldn't freak out at her disappearance and launch a country-wide search for her (been there, done that, got the wanted poster), and Narcissa Malfoy, ensuring her that she and her son were still under the Black family protection despite her lack of physical presence in Britain (Bloody Sirius. Bloody Black family bloody drama).

Her lungs reminding her that she didn't have gillyweed and therefore needed air, Hariel allowed her body to float back to the surface of the hot spring.

She was surprised to find that the Sun was setting, and it was with great reluctance that she decided perhaps it was time to get up and leave before she turned into one great big dried prune. She had been in the hot spring for hours already.

The young witch luxuriated in the steamy water for two more seconds before forcing herself to get out of the hot spring.

(The force of will required to do so was even greater than that required to resist the call of a horcrux. That's how wonderful the hot spring was).

Wandlessly summoning her towel from a nearby tree branch, Hariel stretched languorously as she wrapped herself up in its fluffiness.

Looking back longingly at the hot spring, the redheaded witch was surprised to find that the ripples in the water had already been soothed enough for her to see her reflection on its surface.

Hariel studied herself. She knew the color of each fleck in her eyes, had memorized the path from the corner of her eye to her chin, had repeatedly traced the contours of her lips until she could draw them exactly right without looking.

It wasn't because she was vain, nor was it because her face had been continuously plastered all over newspapers, books, quidditch supplies, etc., and later even wanted posters, throughout most of her life.

In fact, she had taken to studying her reflection as a hobby from when she was just four years old.

Petunia had told her she wouldn't get any less ugly by staring at her reflection in the mirror, but she hadn't done it for beauty or anything of the like.

(She had long accepted she was passably pretty at best).

No, Hariel had spent hours in front of a mirror staring at herself because it had been her way of desperately looking for traces of her parents left behind on her skin.

It was only when she got to Hogwarts, however, and received her parents' album, that she managed to piece together where her traits came from.

Her face was her mother's, she had found, with hints from her father in the curve of a cheekbone, the thickness of her eyelashes, or the aristocratic curve of her lip. Interestingly enough, she had found that her nose actually came from her grandmother on her father's side, Dorea Black.

 _I suppose_ , Hariel thought, analyzing her rather marking appearance,  _I can't blame the villagers too much for running away from me. I do look quite… different._

Her eyes, although everyone told her were the same shade as her mother's, she had spent years studying enough to tell were a different color. They were both green, but her eyes encompassed different tones of green, from the dark color of tree leaves in a forest at the brink of twilight, to the luminescent, arresting green of the  _Avada Kedavra._

(She had wondered, at one point, if it was surviving the killing curse that had changed her eyes from Lily's comforting grassy green to this.

She had never hated Voldemort more.)

Hariel's hair was also rather… unique. Unlike her eyes, though, her hair was a strange mix of both her parents'. It was not the pure black of her father's, but nor was it the light ginger of her mother's. It was a mixture of both, as though someone had turned their hair colors into paint and mixed them to get hers. Hariel's hair was a deep, dark red; nothing at all like the cheerful auburn-almost-orange of all other redheads she had met.

Rubies melded into a starless sky, Hermione had called it once in a rare moment of poetry. Of course, the  _Daily Prophet_ had called it the color of blood and nights meant for Dark Rituals. Personally, Hariel preferred Hermione's description, but when had her preferences ever meant anything to the Wizarding World?

Dismissing these thoughts, and idly cursing her English blood for giving her such blastedly pale skin, Hariel put on her clothes and headed back home.

.

.

.

It was the next day, and all the relaxation from the previous day's hot spring had disappeared and been replaced by irritation.

The reason being such: Hariel knew when she was being talked about.

It was a skill at this point, really. Honed from being called the Girl-Who-Lived and pointed and stared at all of her Hogwarts Years, except for that one year where she was called the Heir of Slytherin and pointed and stared at, and that other year where she was called one of the Triwizard Champions (as well as many other unsavory names courtesy of dear cousin Malfoy) and pointed and stared at. Ah, and that last year where she was declared Enemy Number One, and pointed and stared at and chased after.

So yes, she knew exactly when the villagers were talking about her.

Others talking about her generally registered more as a faint buzzing in her mind – something she could choose to acknowledge or not. Generally it was "not".

This case would have been no different, except for one thing.

She didn't understand  _why_ the villagers were talking about her.

Oh, she could think of plenty of reasons why they  _would_. For one, she'd understand if they were simply gossiping about the new girl in town – or in forest, as it was in this case – despite the fact that she'd already been here two months, as, frankly, they didn't seem like they saw  _anyone_ new. Ever. She might be the first foreigner they'd ever met.

(This was the small town of small towns of small towns.

Seriously.

Nearest anything was literally a desert or a forest away.)

But Hariel sensed that she was being talked about in the oddest of contexts.

For example, just yesterday she had sensed one man was talking about her, but when she turned around, she found him pointing in apparent excited astonishment at a dead animal, obviously some ridiculously large gazelle he had hunted in the forest and caught, gesturing animatedly at it while talking animatedly to another villager.

What the hell could she have to do with that conversation?

And right now, just to her left, she felt a pair of women talking about her. One was older, possibly in her early forties, while the other was slim and looked to be in her twenties. Again, the context in which Hariel felt herself being talked about was strange. The older woman was pregnant, not obviously so but quite noticeable if someone bothered to look, even under that strange tent-like tunic everyone wore here, and caressed her protruding stomach proudly. The pregnant woman was saying something to the younger woman, who was nodding along, looking absolutely amazed.

Hariel thought pregnancy and childbirth were pretty amazing as well, but the second woman was overdoing it a bit. There was no need to look  _quite_ so wide-eyed and shocked. She looked like she'd been told the woman was giving birth to a golden dragon egg, if giving birth to golden dragon eggs was something to be celebrated.

Hariel cursed her lack of speaking ability. If only she knew the language she could simply amplify her hearing and find out exactly  _what_ they were talking about and why it related to her.

_Bloody, sodding, buggering translation spell._

Hariel was trying to learn the language, she really was, but it was slow-going. It didn't help that whenever she was around, the villagers had the annoying habit of stopping everything they were doing (including speaking) to silently and not-so-discretely observe her – not the best for learning a new language. Hariel knew basic words, like "hello", "how are you", "thank you", and "bread", but the last time she had tried to speak the language with someone (her usual bread merchant, as it were) the man had frozen and looked so shocked, Hariel had gotten too self-conscious to try again. Had her accent been that bad? Or did the word she thought was 'hello' actually mean something insulting? Either way, the point was she knew nowhere near enough to grasp what the women were talking about, especially when they spoke so fast.

Hariel sighed and kept walking forward. Well, it wasn't like it really mattered. She had stopped caring about what other people were saying about her a while ago. If she paid each instance any mind, she'd never be happy.

Such was the life of a celebrity turned war heroine; reporters hounded her every step. If she so much as sneezed in their presence, she was sure to make the paper, probably with some announcement on her pending death.

Hariel smiled again at the anonymity she had achieved by staying in this antiquated little village.

_Ah, how wonderful it is to only be known as that weird foreign girl who lives alone in the forest._

Hariel was broken from her musings by childish laughter.

She looked in the direction that the sound was coming from and found a truly heart-warming sight.

Four children were playing in a grassy meadow, an open space between the villages' small huts and the desert, probably designed for communal activities.

Even better, the children appeared to not have noticed Hariel and so hadn't stopped everything they were doing in order to silently stare.

There was one older boy, no more than fifteen, one young boy, around five, and two young girls, appearing to be around six and eight years old. They all looked faintly alike, siblings perhaps? They were chasing each other amid tall green blades of grass, the elder boy making scary faces and faux-running after the other children while they squealed madly in glee. Once he caught one of them, he would tickle them into submission before leaving them and chasing after his next victim.

Hariel couldn't help smiling at the sight. She was just about ready to continue walking (she didn't want the kids to notice her presence and stop playing) to buy some more of her glorious bread, when something stayed her feet.

Unable to go forward, Hariel looked back at the meadow where the children were. Immediately, her gaze focused on the older boy.

Following her instincts (they had saved her hide too many times to count), Hariel allowed her feet to guide her through the blades of grass and to the boy.

This time, the children did notice her. It was as she feared – the younger kids stopped running and squealing in favor of staring at her slack-jawed, and the older boy gave up on chasing them, instead taking a step towards her, protectively placing the kids behind him, and bowing his head.

(Merlin, a boy had to protect  _little children_  from  _her_. What a horrible reputation she had.)

Even as she approached, the boy kept his head bowed, not once looking her in the eye.

There was an odd pause as Hariel finally reached the boy.

Hariel felt decidedly awkward.

In part because the boy refused to look up at her, still bowing, but mostly because…

Hariel had no idea what to do. Sure, her instinct had guided her to the boy, but now that she was here it appeared to have forsaken her. So now Hariel was stuck, standing awkwardly in front of children, feeling like a total creeper, with no idea what she was supposed to do.

Oh dear. This would definitely not help her reputation as a disease-ridden, violent criminal.

As the seconds stretched longer and the boy still wouldn't look at her, Hariel started thinking frantically.

Something in her demanded she do something with or for this child. Speaking to him was not an option, as she didn't have a fucking translation spell.

(That blasted translation spell).

Putting a spell on him was also out, as she wasn't quite sure what spell she was supposed to put on him in the first place. She'd put a standard protection spell, but if she were to do it wandlessly and wordlessly she'd generally have to touch him with her hands, preferably her lips, somehow, and initiating that kind of contact with an unknown fifteen year old boy was… no. Just, no.

But what else could she do?

As though in answer to that question, Hariel felt a tingling in her fingers. It was oddly reminiscent of how she felt when the philosopher's stone had appeared in her pocket; an urge to reach into her clothes and find out what was there.

Figuring instinct had gotten her into this mess so it was damn well responsible for getting her out, Hariel obediently reached into her pocket (made larger by magic, of course), and started fingering what she found there.

_Hmmmm… a pen… a feather… some sickles… a bezoar… dittany egg… just what on earth could I possibly give to an unknown fifteen- Ah!_

Hariel's eyes widened in realization as she felt the object's cold sharpness.

_This… This just might work._

Pulling it out of her pocket, Hariel brought out the small dagger she used to skin the animals she hunted. It was charmed to never go dull, and to be so sharp it cut through even stone. She may not know the bloody translation spell, but give her any spell linked to Defense Against the Dark Arts or battle in general, and she had mastered it.

Eyeing the blade and wondering at the ethics of giving such a weapon, even if small, to a fifteen year old boy, Hariel was assaulted with a brief headache.

 _Fine, fine. I'll give the boy the damned dagger._ Immediately, her headache ceased.

 _Why is my body so weird?_ Hariel whined internally.

Deciding that at the very least she'd offer some measure of protection for the boy, Hariel closed her eyes and wandlessly and wordlessly sent a protection charm to the blade, at the end discretely pricking her finger at the tip of the blade, watching as a perfect drop of red blood slid down it before being absorbed by the metal. It was necessary – she didn't yet have the necessary control to perform complex wordless and wandless magic without pressing a focal point of magic to the intended recipient. She was tempted to do as she had done with the Lion King baby, but kissing a dagger would have been a bit too psycho serial killer-y even for her, and blood was always a powerful enhancer of magic.

Opening her eyes, Hariel was pleased to feel the magical pulsation of the dagger. It would offer some measure of protection to the boy for as long as he held it, hopefully preventing him from accidentally hurting himself in the process.

Finally paying attention to her surroundings again, Hariel was annoyed to find that the younger kids were still staring at her wide-eyed, and the boy was still doing the exact opposite, instead bowing and looking at her bare feet (yes, she was walking around barefoot now. So she had become one of Aunt Petunia's so called hooligans, so what? She was perfectly happy with her bare feet, thank you very much).

Reluctant to touch the fifteen year old boy  _whom she had never before seen in her life_ , but finding no other way, Hariel slowly (as to not scare the boy off) reached for his hand. Both of his hands were clenched into tight fists near his body, and Hariel wondered if that meant he was mad or scared of her. Merlin, what rumors were there about her in this blasted village?! She just bet there was some sort of Bronze Age villager Petunia that was coming up with all sorts of exaggerated nasty tales.

When Hariel finally encircled her hand around his, the boy's whole boy tensed, but still he did not raise his head, nor did he resist her when she forced his arm up and pried his fingers away from his palm so that he was no longer holding it in a fist.

Feeling like this was some sort of odd out-of-body experience, Hariel placed the hilt of the dagger in his now open hand. The boy still wasn't moving of his own accord, however, instead freezing in the position she had left him like some sort of macabre, breathing statue, so Hariel was forced to close her hands around the boy's again, making his fingers clutch the dagger's hilt so it didn't fall to the ground.

As she released the boy's hand again, Hariel felt her exasperation rise at how his head was still bowed, his arm outstretched in front of him in the exact same position she left him in.

A small part of her was impressed. If some stranger had pressed something into  _her_ hand, especially when she was fifteen, she would have immediately looked up to see what it was. She wouldn't have been able to contain her curiosity. Well, the boy did seem mature for his age, unlike how she had been.

(In her defense, the summer she had turned fifteen she had been left wasting away in a house surrounded by people who loathed her and everything she stood for, with no contact with anyone else, including the long-awaited godfather who had promised to take care of her).

Time passed once more, but the boy still stood frozen, bowing in front of her, and the kids now looked between her and the dagger in the boy's hands, heads turning comically rapidly as though they were watching a tennis match.

 _Bah, forget this!_ Hariel muttered, exasperated. She had done as her instinct demanded, and now she just didn't want to have to deal with any of it anymore. She turned on her heel and headed away from the meadow and the weird thing that just happened there.  _I'm going to go buy more bread._

.

.

.

Three days after the weird meadow incident, also known as the day Hariel Potter could have very well been accused of pedophilia, or at the very least of aiding a minor in harming himself or others by giving him a  _bloody dagger_ (What the hell had she been thinking? In fact, had she been thinking  _at all_? You don't just give fifteen-year-olds blades that are magically enhanced to be sharp enough to cut through  _stone!_ Merlin, if Hermione ever heard about this Hariel would never hear the end of it! Then again,  _Hariel_ had been wielding the Sword of Gryffindor – much mightier and more dangerous than a sharp dagger - at age twelve, so maybe this lapse in good judgment was just a consequence of her upbringing), Hariel opened her door to find yet another family camping in her front yard.

Like the previous one, this family looked like they had been waiting in her lawn for most of the night, the rest of the night spent looking for her home. Their faces were dirty, their clothes covered in leaves and mud. Merlin, they had probably been freezing the entire night!

Honestly, had no one ever heard of knocking? Why was there this insistence on just waiting for her to come out of her home? Didn't they realize that was pretty creepy? Or was knocking just not a thing here? Merlin, how did they ever meet up with other people if they couldn't  _knock_?

(If she had bothered to learn the bloody translation spell, then she could just tell everyone to knock on her door when they needed her and wouldn't have total strangers camping outside in dangerous proximity to her carefully cultivated lilies. Bloody translation spell.)

Such thoughts quickly flew out of her mind, however, when she got a better look at the family.

Hariel paled.

There were six of them total. An older man with a serious mien and a scar on his forehead, presumably the father, a timid-looking woman with coarse black hair and a habit of nervously wringing her hands before forcing herself to stop just to subconsciously start back up again seconds later, a boy that looked around five, two girls that looked to be about six and eight respectively, and… the fifteen year old boy.

Oh  _shit._ These were the boy's parents and they were here to yell at her for giving their son a  _bloody fucking dagger._

_Bloody fucking instincts getting me in all sorts of trouble. See if I listen to you again._

The boy had probably cut himself with it, the idiot. Her protection charm should have stopped him from receiving the worst of the injuries, but if it was bad enough then he'd still be hurt.

Slowly, like a frightened animal, Hariel turned her head to look at the fifteen-year-old boy and check for signs of any injuries.

 _Oh, bloody hell._ The boy was all bruised up, and his bare arms were all scratched – from more than just the trek through the forest to her hut, apparently.

But what froze Hariel on the spot was-

 _A scar._ Hariel stood, shocked, staring dumbly at the clear scar that ran down like a slit through his left eye.  _How the hell does he have a_ scar?!

The protection spell should have prevented him from suffering any serious injuries! The idiot boy had to have grabbed the dagger by the hilt and stabbed his eye with it!

Overcome with trepidation, Hariel looked back at the parents, both of them looking incredibly serious. Like their son had before, they wouldn't look her in the face, instead bowing their heads and staring at the ground.

Well, now she knew that the whole bowing thing wasn't at all a motion of respect. It was probably some custom to not look at those you found unworthy or something. The boy had done it because of her reputation as a disease-ridden violent criminal, and the parents were doing it because she had  _given a fifteen-year-old an insanely sharp dagger that he used to maim himself with._

If she were them she wouldn't want to even look at her too.

Still, it kind of hurt. To not even be worthy of a glance. And she had been making such good progress with the villagers, too!

Just what had possessed her to give a kid a weapon? Handling the Sword of Gryffindor at twelve or no, she liked to think she had more common sense than the average wizard.

(It did not occur to Hariel that she, herself, was only seventeen, and that the boy was a mere two years younger than her. To her, the fifteen year old was a child, simply because he had not had to face the horrors of war).

Taking in a deep breath, Hariel braced herself to be yelled at. And fingered the wand under her sleeve, as well, just in case the scary-looking father decided to exact a more…  _physical_ revenge on her for his son.

At least she wouldn't understand  _what_ he was yelling at her about. Perks of not knowing that sodding translation spell. It was a small comfort, but one all the same.

The father then shouted something, his voice guttural and harsh.

Hariel would have been more than a little intimidated if she hadn't had to listen to voices like Bellatrix's mad cackle or Aragog, the ginormous acromantula, and his children's ominous, resounding voices. Don't even get her started on Voldemort's serpentine hissing or the mermaids' piercing shrieks.

As Hariel prepared to get yelled at by the big stranger with the deep voice, she was utterly shocked as the whole family, in perfect synchrony, even the really young kids, fell to their knees, heads still bowed.

Hariel almost thought that the man had yelled "duck" and an attack was going on, but dropping to the ground in such perfect coordination, especially for the young children, had to mean that they had practiced this before. Besides, there was no attack raining down on them at the moment.

Was this part of some battle dance? Maybe some dueling etiquette that the village had? Perhaps declaring a family feud, which is why they had to bring the whole family? Was she supposed to also drop to her knees and bow to them to signal the completion of the ritual?

All Hariel could do was stare in absolute bafflement.

Then, the fifteen year old she had caused a scar in did this strange knee-walk, where he practically crawled towards her on hands and knees, still not looking at her, but somehow managing to make it look elegant.

Hariel would have been impressed if she hadn't been so bloody confused.

Was this some sort of attack? If it was, it was the strangest attack she had ever encountered. She could decapitate him right then and there- he wasn't even looking at her to check for any attacks!

Staring at the boy in complete bewilderment as he somehow elegantly crawled towards her, Hariel noticed that he was clutching two baskets. She hadn't noticed them earlier, so focused she had been on the boy's face, or more specifically his scar, and the boy's tough-looking father.

But now she saw the boy had two straw baskets, both covered by some sort of thick, colorful cloth. The one on his left was a rich, royal blue with silver marking, and the one on the right a deep red with golden marking. The markings themselves were obviously symbols she was not familiar with, and Hariel wondered if this was the villagers' written language.

Once the boy judged he was close enough to her, he pushed the blue and silver basket towards her with both hands, head still bowed. Disturbingly, it looked like he was prostrating himself before her.

He stayed in that position for some time- that couldn't be comfortable - before Hariel got the hint that it was her turn to do something. Curious, and figuring this was probably what the boy was expecting, Hariel lifted the cloth of the proffered basket and found an assortment of dried meats, fruits, and what looked like wine.

Hariel was so confused.

Once the boy noted she had removed the cloth from the first basket, he proceeded to push forward the second basket, the one covered in red and gold, again with both hands so that it looked like he was prostrating himself in front of her.

Quicker on the uptake this time, Hariel lifted the cloth off the second basket.

It was all she could do not to scream.

For in the second basket were metal manacles and chains that looked like they had been sliced in half and…

A human head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bet you guys weren't expecting that! Honestly, I wasn't really expecting it either, but it sort of just happened. 
> 
> Another cookie to the person who can tell me what happened! 
> 
> On a related note, you guys will find out who the man Hariel saved was either next chapter or two chapters from now!


	5. Human Heads, Mahogany Tables, and Wine - Lots of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, Hariel knew drinking was not a good way of coping with things. No, she didn't particularly care at the moment, thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Red River
> 
> A/N: I've been absolutely blown away by the response to this fic. Especially those of you who have never even read Red River/Anatolia Story - it's so, so flattering that you guys think this story is worth a read anyway. Thank you so much for the unwavering support!
> 
> So here is the next chapter of Divine Intervention! Sorry for the wait!

Hariel took a long, deep gulp of the red wine, straight from the bottle.

It was a little strong and crude compared to the wines she was used to, but that was exactly what she needed right then. Actually, she wished she had something stronger on her – a good firewhiskey would hit the spot.

She was on her third bottle. None of them were from the basket the boy's family had given her, no,  _that_  bottle was hidden away at the very, very back of her house, where all the other things she never wanted to look at ever again stayed. The bottles she had gone through were all wine she had bought at the market, blissfully free of any occurrences stranger than a fearfully quivering merchant.

Hariel was a bit of a heavy weight, something about her magic accelerating the purification of what it deemed as poison, which she had always counted as a good thing, but right now, she really, really wished to get roaring drunk as fast as witchly possible. She was a good portion of the way there already, but she just really needed to  _not_  think right now.

No, drinking was not a good way of coping with things. No, she didn't particularly care at the moment, thank you.

Yesterday had been… unique. Which was saying something, considering all the crazy experiences she'd had throughout her life.

Yesterday she had expected a firm, if incomprehensible, scolding from the parents of the boy she had foolishly given a dagger to, as was their right.

Instead, she was gifted with wine, fruit, and pastries.

Oh, and let's not forget the human head.

Now, Hariel had received exotic gifts before, ranging from dragon's blood wine to a ring that could take her to  _the_ Atlantis, among other things (amazing experience, actually, the merpeople there were  _much_ more polite than the ones in Hogwarts's lake). She had even received severed heads from other species; the giants had gifted her with twelve ox heads once, and Neville had given her Nagini's head as a pleasant souvenir (She had told him he could keep it. He earned that snakehead).

But this was… new.

No one had ever given her a human head before.

She had never  _wanted_ a human head before.

Most importantly, she  _still didn't want a human head._

But there it was, still in the basket it had been gifted to her in, lovingly settled in red and golden cloth, sitting on her beautiful mahogany coffee table that she'd never be able to look at the same way again.

Oh, Merlin. She hoped none of the blood leaked through. Mahogany stained easily.

She wondered, with no little amount of idle hysteria, if this village was where the expression "I want her head in a basket" came from.

It was such an ugly head, too. Apart from its dull, dead eyes that seemed to follow her wherever she went in the room, the head also possessed a gnarly, messy beard and a misshapen nose.

Looking at it, Hariel felt deeply unsettled.

Oh, it wasn't because she had a severed human head in her living room – sure, it didn't match the classic décor she was going for, and she'd be mad if the blood stained her mahogany coffee table, but she'd seen worse things and not flinched.

(Gone unspoken was that the first time she had seen a severed head, it had been rotting and putrid on the battlefield, and maggots had been feasting on it for at least three days before she and her party had come upon it. She had lasted barely a minute before running to the nearest tree and losing that morning's breakfast, and quite possibly the previous day's dinner. After that, she had only vomited out of horror two more times, although the horrors had in no way ceased. She would have starved half to death had she thrown up at every gory horror she encountered during the war.)

No, what deeply unsettled Hariel was what the head represented.

For one, it was the transformation of a child into a killer.

For two, it was the reminder that she had  _aided_  in turning that child into a killer.

For three, it was that the head proved that slavery still existed.

Yesterday, after registering that there was a severed head in the basket the boy was presenting her with, Hariel had wasted no time. She had grabbed the back of the bowing fifteen-year-old boy's head and forced him to look her in the eye, deep brown to electric green. Without the slightest hesitation, she had invaded his mind.

Usually, she was morally opposed to using Legillimency when not at war, especially on muggles who had little defense for such things.

But she had just received a human head from a fifteen-year-old child. Exceptions were made.

Delving into his mind had been easy, if slightly disorienting. She had been assaulted by the young boy's thoughts, all in that language she didn't know.

It didn't matter. She didn't have to speak the language to know what happened.

Thankfully, the memory was recent and as such easily found. It hardly took two seconds, and this was considering Hariel wasn't extraordinarily skilled in Legillimency (to Snape's utter exasperation. But then, when wasn't Snape exasperated with her?)

Hariel had watched events unfold with a single-minded intensity she hadn't felt since she had cut Voldemort's head off, an image that now eerily reminded her of what the basket in front of her so lovingly held.

What she had found utterly repulsed her, even more than being gifted a human head had.

Before her eyes, the makings of a tragedy had played out.

.

.

.

_It was a sunny, lazy day, and the boy was playing with his siblings, the little boy and the two little girls, in the same meadow Hariel had first found them in. The girls were making flower crowns, picking up the colorful blossoms that littered the meadow with a curious reverence, and giggling as they used them to create makeshift jewelry. The little boy was dragged into it, thrashing and screaming, and soon was completely covered in yellow, pink, white, and blue flowers. He sat beside them making disgusted faces and voicing loud protests, but it could not hide the joyful and fascinated gleam in his eyes as he too admired the brightly colored blooms. Meanwhile, the older boy watched amusedly, he himself twirling a vibrant blue flower in his hand._

_It was through the younger children's repeated cries for the fifteen-year-old boy to come join that Hariel learned his name was Tarhunda. It was the first villager name she learned._

_That felt oddly right to Hariel._

_As time passed, more of the village children joined the four, along with some of the women, most of the latter either very old or very young. Hariel presumed that the more able-bodied women, along with the men, were working the fields or hunting, while the older and more fragile were sent to care for the young._

_The children were laughing gaily as they played games that only children could understand, the older women watching contentedly from their spot under the shade, sharing village gossip with each other. It was an idyllic scene, and one that, at the beginning, Hariel resented perhaps a little. The witch had never seen the villagers so calm and peaceful in her presence. She wondered, not for the first time, whether their fear of her was more than pure xenophobia._

_Hariel dismissed the thought. Now was not the time for such things. She had invaded the boy's mind for a reason, and it was not to resent the villagers for their fear._

_She returned to watching the children shriek in glee at being chased around. The boy she had given the dagger to – Tarhunda, she reminded herself - was now chasing an entire hoard of little boys and girls, emitting playful growls. Two others who looked approximately his age, a boy and a girl, also did the same._

_It was as the little girl, sister to Tarhunda, gave a particularly loud gleeful shriek that it happened._

_Men surged from the sands of the desert, like demons from a mist, gleaming swords in their hands and armor on their large chests. Long, matted beards covered the bottom of their faces, the only skin visible brown and coarse, no doubt from their time in the desert. They all wore different colored cloaks that shielded them from the sun, yet on the sleeve of each one was an identical symbol, an innocent-looking red hoof, which gave their clothes the appearance of a uniform._

_It was to this symbol, Hariel noticed, Tarhunda's eyes kept going back to, and to this symbol his bronzed skin became pale._

_The intruders approached the older women and children with cruel smirks and a vicious gleam in their eyes. One of them, a huge monster of a man with a confident gait and a large mace strapped to his back to go with the sword in his hand, obviously the leader of the gang, started talking to the crowd, who was held captive in fear._

_He loomed over the villagers, and even over the other men with him, standing at more than six feet. He had long, matted black hair, deep-set eyes so dark they appeared black, and a vicious-looking tattoo that ran along the side of his bulky left arm. He also had a crooked nose, as though it had been broken one too many times, yet carried himself with such a constant promise of violence that it left no doubt in anyone's mind that those that had broken it had suffered far worse than a broken nose at his hands._

_His voice was harsh and guttural as he spoke to the frozen villagers, and it grated on the witch's ears, even listening to it through another's mind._

_Hariel could not understand the words, but the tone was threatening enough for her to not need to._

_Obey or Die._

_If not the tone, then the stricken, fearful expressions of the villagers would have clued her in._

_There was a palpable sense of terror in the air, surpassing even that of when Hariel had first woken up to the handful of villagers tremulously holding spears in their hands._

_This was not the vague, confused fear that had confronted Hariel her first day in this village, it was the terror that comes when one knows exactly what will happen, each horrifying detail, and dreads it with every ounce of their being._

_It was not confronting an unknown entity and fearing the worst, but being faced with a familiar one and knowing the worst is exactly what will happen._

_Hariel wondered why none of the villagers were running – they all seemed terrified enough - until she saw a little boy who could not possibly be more than six in one of the men's arms, clearly struggling not to cry and failing as a sword was held to his tiny throat._

_A woman, presumably his mother, stood by, watching her son and the sword pointed at his throat with single-minded intensity, as though if she blinked for a second her son's life would disappear, his body motionless at her feet._

_As the leader's speech - composed of threats and orders, Hariel was sure – finished, a few of the children started screaming and running away._

_Children were not faster than grown men, even those weighed down by armor and weapons, however, and they were soon brutally dragged back, sporting black eyes and bloody mouths._

_Some of the women were hugging their children close to their bodies, whispering comforting words in soothing tones, smiling lovingly at their daughters and sons even as they trembled in obvious terror._

_Hariel had never seen such strength in a smile._

_The men walked around, grabbing the women and children roughly and tying them with ropes. To Hariel's utter horror, they chained them with metal that would doubtless rub their skin raw, the metal tightening at the wrists and at the neck, like collars on animals._

_The women stood passively as the men made their rounds, softly urging their children to do the same. Hariel felt anger at their automatic submission, but quickly beat down the emotion. Did the women truly have a choice? Should they fight back, their children would be massacred. They could not possibly flee the men; their children would slow them down. Screaming would only anger their capturers, and condemn the able-bodied men and women of the village who came rushing in to death, as none of the villagers were warriors, only hunters and farmers._

_Tarhunda himself protectively held his siblings in his arms, soft sobs muffled against his tunic._

_Tarhunda tried to hide it, but he, too, was choking back on his tears._

_It was as the chains were fastened around Tarhunda's youngest sister's wrists, tightened painfully around her little throat eliciting a small, vulnerable whimper, that Hariel felt all-consuming fury._

_Rage rose within her like a beast awoken from slumber, magic concentrating at her fingertips and crackling around her hands. Deep green eyes turned a glowing Avada Kedavra green and red hair moved, as though possessing a will of its own, in reaction to the power condensed around her._

_Hariel trembled with the potential for violence, a readied bow a finger twitch away from releasing its arrow._

_No rage or power would affect the scene before her, however. All of this had already happened, and there was nothing Hariel could do about it._

_All she could do was watch the memory play out._

_She had never felt so impotent._

_Hariel watched as the women and children walked, chained, through the sand until they eventually found the slavers' horses. Presumably, they had made the trek to the meadow by foot, so as to not warn the villagers of their arrival through the dust the horses would have inevitably created._

_Crudely attached to the horses with a thick, coarse rope, like cattle to a cart, or a dog to a pole while its owner goes buy something from a store, were haggard-looking men and women, boys and girls, all filthy and emaciated, with cuffs on their hands and collars on their necks._

_Their hair was covered in grime and sand, so that its original color could not be determined with just a look. They wore rags even dirtier than their hair, covered in brown and what looked like dark red, along with cloaks of deep sorrow._

_The resigned despair in their eyes would haunt Hariel for weeks._

_The captured villagers trembled at the sight of these new people perhaps even more than they had trembled at the sight of the men who had captured them, for surely what they looked at was their imminent future, and it was a horrible, dreadful thing._

_Some of the women of the village started praying, hands clasped together and fingers tightly shut, but the men – who could only be slavers, Hariel thought in disgust – swiftly slapped them, keeping them from their worship._

_Finally, the slavers attached the chains of the villagers to that of those who had previously been captured, mounted their horses and started the voyage through the desert._

_Tarhunda looked around him at the defeated faces of his fellow villagers, the people he had grown up with. He seemed particularly transfixed by the trembling forms of his younger siblings who were separated rom him by two other captives, and who struggled to keep up and tripped over their chains._

_Hariel watched as the boy's face shut down into a matching expression of resigned despair, before seemingly lighting up, eyes gleaming in the way they did only when one possessed some sort of mad hope in the face of seemingly impossible odds._

_Tarhunda discretely reached under his tunic, silently patting himself a bit with the smallest possible movements before apparently finding what he was looking for, a desperate, hopeful grin covering his face._

_Slowly, he moved his hand back out and resumed walking with the others, all of them in an organized line, looking, for all intents and purposes, exactly as the other captives._

_Yet, if one were to look closer, as Hariel did, they would find his steps had more energy, his head had a defiant tilt to it, and his eyes, instead of acceptance, almost glowed with a steadfast conviction._

_He looked like a boy with a plan._

_Hariel dearly hoped it was a good one._

_Hours passed, and the slavers and captives kept walking until night was upon them. A small fire was created, and the slavers, after securing their captives, sat down on the sandy ground and poured themselves ale, laughing and leering at some of the village women._

_Meanwhile, the captives shivered, huddling together. The night in the desert was cold, after all, and they were far from the fire the slavers had lit._

_Noticing the slavers' distraction, Tarhunda turned his body away from his capturers and once again discretely reached a hand under his tunic, before slowly pulling it out again._

_This time his hand was not empty._

_Instead, bronze fingers tightly clutched a dagger._

_The same dagger Hariel had given him._

_The woman behind Tarhunda saw this, and whispered viciously at him, sneaking nervous glances at the still laughing slavers._

_Tarhunda was calm in the face of her anger, impressively so for a fifteen-year-old, Hariel thought. He spoke to her with no small measure of obvious nerves, but with steely determination uncharacteristic of one so young._

_The village woman looked at him skeptically, but there was a sheen of desperate hope in her eyes, and Hariel couldn't blame her, for even the most unlikely of plans meant a small chance against a lifetime of servitude._

_Discretely, the woman positioned herself so that she stood between the slavers' gaze and Tarhunda._

_Tarhunda looked at her, and she nodded, face set in grim resolve. She discretely spoke to a few of the other men and women surrounding them, sneaking furtive glances at the slavers, for they did not like it when their captives spoke for too long, and soon there were five women and men shielding Tarhunda from view._

_Tarhunda, for his part, clutched the dagger desperately. He closed his eyes and held the dagger to his chest, lips moving in silent prayer._

_The prayer seemed to settle his nerves for, with a last reverent word, Tarhunda's face turned to the moon, eyes glinting with renewed determination._

_Swiftly, Tarhunda took the dagger and started working on the ropes that tied him to the other captives. Or, at least, he would have started working on them had the dagger not cut through the rope like a knife through butter._

_Tarhunda stopped and stared at the rope in open-mouthed shock, not quite believing what had just happened._

_Quickly, he moved on to the next rope, which was cut through just as easily._

_In a state of still continued suspended disbelief, he moved this time to the metal chains and the manacles around his wrists, pressing the dagger to cut them, only for this, too, to be cut as easily as the rope._

_Tarhunda grinned viciously._

_After cutting through all of his bindings, Tarhunda discretely cut off the bindings of the five captives who were shielding him from view. They, too, watched as Tarhunda easily cut through thick rope and metal in seeming stupefied awe._

_Tarhunda then told them something that had their eyes light up, shining no longer with mad hope at a desperate and ill-thought plan, but with growing faith that they would escape successfully._

_As each person was freed, they looked to the moon and whispered to it reverently._

_The moon was silent in answer, merely glowing benevolently._

_The freed captives stayed their place so as to not arouse suspicion, but swiftly spread the word to the others so that they were not surprised when Tarhunda came._

_And Tarhunda did come. Working with the light of the moon, sneaking through the night's darkness, he reached every captive and with swift cuts of his dagger he freed them from the rope and metal bindings alike that branded them slaves._

_The children were more difficult to manage, but even they understood the need for silence and discretion. With the help of the adult captives around them, the children stayed calm and silent as Tarhunda cut through their restraints._

_Yet would this be enough? The captives far outnumbered the slavers, yet they were weighed down by children and some elderly. They had little in the way of weapons, and the people were tired and exhausted._

_But there was a feverish desperation, a mad hope that would surely drive them to victory._

_No one fought harder and more savagely than desperate men._

_As Tarhunda thought of his next set of actions, a small woman with hazel eyes, one of those that shielded him from the slavers' view, tapped him on the back. Discretely she pointed a small, dirty finger to the other side of the fire, where weapons were piled together in a heap._

_Nodding, Tarhunda slowly made his way through shadow towards the weapons, crouching low and using the hills of sand for cover, every moment that passed one closer to victory, yet also closer to discovery and a painful death._

_Tarhunda need not have worried. The boy moved silently through the night, as though darkness itself was shielding him. None of the slavers stirred, too caught up in their ale and their laughter to worry about shadows that moved not when they should._

_Tarhunda made several trips back and forth, each step feeling like it might be his last. At last, he judged his fellow captives to be sufficiently armed._

_The discussion of the battle plan was hurried and swift – any moment the slavers could look at them and punish them for speaking to each other, or they might look too hard and find out that all the bindings had been cut through._

_Sooner than Tarhunda could rightfully process, he and five of the adult captives silently moved towards the fire where the slavers drank, distracted. Using the sand dunes and the shadows for cover, they positioned themselves, still hidden, close to their targets._

_With coordination born of single, unified purpose, Tarhunda and the five adult captives all struck at the same time. Tarhunda watched as his dagger sunk easily through metal armor and pierced the slavers' heart, instantly killing him. Along with his victim, three other slavers died._

_With a furious roar, the leader of the slavers stood, drink forgotten on the sandy floor. The captive assigned to him had missed, and now lay bleeding behind the leader. The other slavers, a little more than ten of them, advanced upon the Tarhunda and the five captives threateningly. They still had the swords and maces they kept on their person, despite all the weapons Tarhunda had taken from the pile._

_As the slavers charged at the six captives that had somehow broken free from their bindings, they were shocked to find all the rest of their adult captives, thirty or forty of them, all brandishing weapons that looked very familiar, rise in defense of Tarhunda and the other five._

_It was difficult to say when the battle started, for to Tarhunda it seemed that they were in the middle of it before it had even begun. Tarhunda fell more than one man using his dagger, the frenzy of battle overtaking him so that he gave the killing of his fellow humans no thought, repeatedly victorious despite his nonexistent training for no sword or armor could defend against his dagger._

_But the weapon does not make the man, and Tarhunda's lack of knowledge on the ways of the warrior eventually had to catch up to him._

_So when the leader came, hulking over Tarhunda like a stone giant, the fifteen-year-old boy could not help but feel fear._

_Fear did not mean a lack of bravery, however, and Tarhunda steeled himself for battle._

_The leader wasted no time upon approaching Tarhunda, and swept at him with his mace, gutturally snarling in rage – whether at the unexpected uprising or at the loss of his men, it was unclear - yet Tarhunda swiftly dodged his many blows._

_Tarhunda started talking to the leader in the language that Hariel could not understand, distracting him with his words._

_The tactic obviously worked, as the leader was distracted enough for Tarhunda to shove the dagger through the man's knee, cutting through it as easily as he had cut through the ropes and metal. The giant fell to his knees, and Tarhunda could swear the very ground shook at his fall. Even on his knees, as it were, the leader was as tall as Tarhunda was standing._

_The giant dropped his mace at the unexpected pain, howling in shocked agony, not having possibly imagined a dagger could cause such grievous injury._

_Unfortunately for Tarhunda, the giant still had his sword._

_Tarhunda didn't even see the giant unsheathe it. The metal cut swiftly through the air. Tarhunda somehow managed to dodge the worst of it, but the tip of the blade still cut through skin, cutting straight from the top of his forehead to the middle of his cheek, straight through his left eye._

_Tarhunda had never felt this sort of pain before. Blood gushed from his cut, leaving the entire left half of his face covered in red._

_The boy did not drop his dagger through the pain, however, instinctually knowing that the small weapon was the only thing that stood between him and the jaws of death. As the giant prepared his sword once more to drop a finishing blow on Tarhunda, the boy used the opportunity to get closer to the man._

_The sword slashed and the dagger cut._

_Both figures stood still as stone, a moment of suspension in the air as though the night itself was anticipating the outcome of this fight between a giant and a boy, until one of them fell._

_Tarhunda stood impassively as he watched the giant's body crumple to the floor. He retrieved his dagger from the giant's neck, with it, somehow dislodging the body's head entirely from its torso._

_With a victorious roar, Tarhunda grabbed the head of the giant by his dark, matted hair and raised it high, and in that moment, with the moon shining behind him, he looked no longer a fifteen-year-old farmer's boy, but a proud warrior howling in victory._

_At the sound, all eyes turned to Tarhunda and his bloody prize. The battle felt silent in shock. The slavers could not believe their leader, the great brutal giant, was dead._

_The captives savagely took advantage of the slavers' shock, and soon all the slavers lay dead or dying on the sand, the previous white-gold of the dunes having now been stained a dark red with blood._

_It was a beautiful sight in a way, a dark painting by a talented, if perturbed, artist. The sand dunes stretched for miles and miles on all sides, like an endless sea of gold, visible only by the grace of the moonlight. A full moon shown down on them, illuminating the patches of red and the bloody bodies they originated from. Standing before it all were the now freed captives, with matted hair, emaciated bodies, clad only in dirty rags and shivering as the adrenaline slowly left them, staring at their capturers as they lay dead before them._

_It could not be certain who started it, but suddenly the freed men and women started shouting in victory, dancing in celebration, congregating around Tarhunda and his mighty dagger._

_Tears of joy, so different from the tears they had shed not hours ago, ran down their faces. Children leapt into the arms of their parents, strangers embraced each other in overwhelmed relief, fellow warriors laughed with each other in instant camaraderie._

_Tarhunda smiled at the sight, and soon he, too, was swept up in the cheers and the dancing._

_And so they celebrated until the Sun rose from the east._

_._

_._

_._

Hariel had quickly broken the mental connection after that, merely ascertaining that the rest of the villagers had made it back safely to the village, and that the other captives were on their way back to their homes.

The rest of the day had passed in something of a blur, but Hariel vaguely remembered nodding to Tarhunda, picking up her two newly gifted baskets and heading back inside.

_Why did they give me the head?_

Although not most pressing – there were  _slavers_ running about in the 21st century! Sure, she knew they existed, but to be confronted with them so obviously! She just sort of expected them to live in the darkness, in the recesses of the world, working in shadow, not to just stroll up in broad daylight and kidnap a whole village-full of children! Merlin's beard, if Hariel thought about it too long she was going to throw up – it was the question that wouldn't leave her.

All of the rest of Tarhunda's actions made sense to Hariel. She understood why he had killed the slavers, understood why he had decapitated the leader (she had done the same to Voldemort, there was no judgment there), even understood why he might feel inclined to keep the head for himself to show his village the beast of a man he had defeated.

What she did  _not_ understand was why he had given it to her.

Was this yet another of their customs she didn't understand? Was it some strange thank you gift for giving him the dagger that had liberated him and the others?

It was the only possible explanation that came to her.

She really, really wished she had learned that translation spell.

_Merlin's beard, what on Earth am I supposed to do with a human head?_

It certainly wasn't going to just stay on her mahogany table.

The question of the human head on her coffee table wasn't even the issue she was most worried about, however.

(And didn't that just sum up her life nicely?)

More importantly than why the boy had chosen to give her the decapitated head of his captor, was why Hariel herself had felt compelled to give the boy a magical dagger.

At the time, she had chalked it up to instinct, but her instincts had never quite behaved that way before. She had followed her instincts when they told her to duck in battle, had followed them to discover a secret Death Eater in the midst of her troops, had followed them when they told her that the enemy army would attack the Western front and not the Eastern.

But all of those instances had to do solely with her. Hariel had just figured it was a product of being in so many battles, a sort of sixth sense as to how the war would flow.

Sometimes, her instincts would urge her to check up on a friend, only to find them being attacked minutes later, or to bring an extra healing potion on her way out, only to find someone dear to her heart severely injured.

But these were all people close to her, extensions of herself. Never had her instincts reacted so for a complete stranger like that boy was.

Was this a newly developed power of divination?

Hariel cringed at the word. To her, divination was still a fluke. Sure, there were prophecies (that had been rubbed in her face most violently), but the whole seeing into the future through tea or a crystal ball or whatnot in an inhale-at-your-own-risk incensed room had never held much stock with her.

It was the reason she had taken Ancient Runes instead. She just didn't believe in divination. Trelawney with her constant premonitions of Hariel's death (even though Hariel  _wasn't even in her class)_ and Hariel's supposed encounter with the "light" (whatever that meant)certainly hadn't helped that impression.

But then, how to describe her compulsion to give a dagger of all things to a fifteen-year-old boy? Under a clear state of mind she would never give weapons to children outside of war.

(During war it was different. She had, after all, formed a small army during her fifth year composed of fourteen to seventeen year old students.

At the time the options had been learning how to fight or torture and death.)

Especially a magical weapon, however small and simple, to a muggle boy. So what had possessed her to do so?

Was she under some sort of influence? Was it her magic, instinctively foreseeing future events, and compelling her to act accordingly?

Hariel groaned. This was all giving her a headache.

She needed more wine.

Looking at the head on her mahogany coffee table again, Hariel nodded.

A lot more wine.

.

.

.

"What did you say?"

Prince Kail's voice was low and steady, imbued with the aristocratic tone he and the rest of the royal family speak with, but despite all his training he could not help the disbelief that tinged it.

"It is as you heard, Your Highness." The black-haired man kneeling in front of him, one of his most trusted commanders and the one whom he had sent to scout the so-called newest deity, repeated, "The rumors speak truth. There is a great beauty in a small village near the empire's borders. She brings life to the lands through crops, rain, and animals. She lives away from the village in a small white hut located in a clearing in the local forest, surrounded by the largest fruit and most majestic of flowers. She hunts at night, covered by shadows, as the moon gazes upon her jealously."

The scout's head looked up from the ground so that he could look his liege in the eyes. Kail had never seen such faith in the man's steely grey orbs, the man's words ringing through the room with the strength of his belief.

"And she is a goddess."

Kail looked at the man kneeling at his feet, almost tempted to ask him to repeat it a third time, for surely he had heard wrong. There was no way his scout had said the woman he was investigating was a goddess.

Were it another man who had said so, the prince would not have been so surprised. But this man was one whose council he trusted, who was levelheaded and rational to a fault, whose tactics in battle had bested men twice his age.

He also hated fake gods with a fiery passion that rivalled Kail's own. In fact, the man had asked to be assigned watch over the fraudulent woman, wanting to ensure she was not inflicting undue suffering on the villagers she had duped into worshipping her, to contribute somehow to the woman's swift punishment. It was why Kail had sent him to gather information on the charlatan, because he had been so sure the man wouldn't be ensnared in her trap – the possibility hadn't even crossed his mind.

"You were by my side when we happened upon the pretend god who chose a 10-year old girl as but one of his victims a handful of summers ago. It is why I allowed you this mission despite it being beneath your station, for I know that you, too, feel strongly about false deities and the horrors they inflict on the innocent," Kail's eyes were trained upon his scout's face, yet he detected, with growing disbelief, not a hint of doubt in the man's countenance. That shouldn't be possible. Somehow, someway, the blasted woman had managed to deceive one of his most competent commanders! Kail felt renewed fury curl in his stomach for this wretched woman, so much so that he could not keep the hard edge of his voice from his next words, "What lies has she fed you that have twisted your mind so? Tell me, so that I may convince you otherwise!"

The black-haired man remained calm under the pressure of his prince's mounting agitation. "None, Your Highness, for I have not had the honor of hearing her voice."

"I have heard enough," Kail spoke, raising his hand to silence the man before him. Truly, if he heard one of his trusted men speak in such a reverent tone of the mortal woman again, he was certain he would do something he'd regret. "You may leave. Thank you for your service."

"Of course, Your Highness." The black-haired man stood to his not inconsiderable height, bowed, and swept out of the room. He had been on the road for days, and was eager for a night's rest in his bed.

Kail forced himself to relax. It was unlike him to be so agitated. He usually carried himself with teasing affability in his day-to-day affairs, and calm authority in matters pertaining to the empire. He was not quick to anger, always sure of himself and practically impervious to what others said about him.

(Had he not been, then surely his stepmother, the Queen, the Tawannana, would have been disposed of long ago.)

Yet this fake goddess with her delusions of grandeur and her scheming prowess that succeeded in deceiving one of his most trusted men managed to evoke such instant loathing from him. He did not think he had ever detested a person he had not even met with such fierceness before.

"Ilbani," Prince Kail barked, and a man with long hair tied up in a simple fashion and a strict mien stepped forward from the shadows. "Inform the others. We move at dawn."

Kail would protect the empire and his people. The deceiving woman had better prepare herself.

"It's about time I met this so called goddess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Freakin' Tarhunda who was supposed to be just a 2-minute excerpt and suddenly took over the entire chapter. See if I give him any screen time again. I hope that legilimency probe memory wasn't too long and boring – it certainly felt super long to me!
> 
> Cookies to everyone who guessed slaver!!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Reviews are love! Leave one if you like the fic enough to want me to continue it!


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